


Unbreaking, Though Quaking

by dennorg



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Male Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Addiction, Drug-Induced Sex, Eventual Romance, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, Gratuitous amounts of background OCs, Hurt/Comfort, Mild canon divergence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recreational Drug Use, Romance, Trauma, sex before romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2020-04-12 04:43:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 53,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19124839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dennorg/pseuds/dennorg
Summary: A recently-thawed vault dweller with an armful of missiles slips and slides around her own mind as she struggles to figure out why the apocalypse feels liberating. She washes up with the rest of the Commonwealth's misfits, and is treated to the official mayoral welcome. They see something of themselves in each other —cowards, who've jumped at the chance for a do-over on their lives.





	1. Lady Lazarus

Romanova stumbled out of her husband’s tomb and shivered as she rose into the early morning sun, golden rays of light passing through gnarled, bare branches. Her quaint, cute little cul-de-sac was collapsed and rusted, home to nothing but the skeletal remains of friendly neighbours, her morbidly unchanged Mr Handy, and some giant fucking cockroaches. 

The pungent air filled her nostrils with a stale stench, everything smelling just a little too much like burning. She scavenged and scraped her way through Sanctuary Hills, to Concord, with a mind that seemed to separate from her body, but for the dull sensation of the worn-out soles of second or third-hand boots pounding against torn roads. 

Her arms throbbed with the lingering sensation of soft, inexperienced hands firing a gun, something she’d never had the compulsion to do back in the old world. The kickback, at least briefly, distracted from the ache in her throat from vocal cords she tore through when she was way below ground in a museum of corpses. 

Romanova moved slowly and holed up in any half-concealed space she could find. For all she knew, the next corner harboured a new monstrosity that would blow her to pieces or tear her apart. 

_Everything is dead. I should be, too._ Some iteration of the thought bounced around her skull, sometimes —rarely— taking a tone of pure shock. _How?_ The question returned fleeting self-awareness to her. It made her nearly fascinated by how _mortal_ she felt, until the numbness won back over, rescuing her from what she had to assume would become a downward spiral of maniacal, adrenaline-driven death-wishing. 

The vast majority of the time, however, the thought was one of anguish. Which led to similar, albeit more desolate impulses.

Romanova vacillated desperately between letting herself lay on the road and be picked apart by any of the weathered citizens of this hellscape that were armed to the teeth, —although, there were almost certainly mutant vultures that could get there first— and the resolve to find her son and avenge the death of the man who gave her the rings she now hung around her neck.

She’d always been a survivor, like the cockroach the size of a dog that scuttling across her neighbour’s dust-covered kitchen floor tiles. Was she anything less, now that the world had its teeth knocked in?

It wasn’t the most convincing argument. After all, the cloying minutiae that threatened to suffocate her way back both two-hundred years ago and yesterday was impossible to compare to what she’d seen of this world so far. It was enough to keep her breathing, though, summoning bursts of that false sense of invincibility to force her to grit her teeth and spray fire at raiders outside of the Museum of Freedom.

She laughed when the Minuteman asked for her help, an involuntary and coarse sound. She couldn’t help it. Romanova had so little to offer. And then, she saw herself as they did. A scavenger, who’d managed to pick her way through a museum —which, frankly, appeared to have become haunted over the last few centuries— full of trigger-happy assholes, with nothing but the ability to land the slim majority of shots she fired. Only, of course, through the aid of V.A.T.S.

Preston Garvey claimed to have seen his group massacred, leaving just the five of them. Barely scraping by, like her, and the only people she’d met that hadn’t tried to gun her down since she thawed out like a glorified popsicle. 

“What’s your name?” the Minuteman asked her.

“Romanov—” She trailed off, teeth biting into her bottom lip. She’d automatically given her maiden name, the way she’d been addressing herself in the privacy of her own mind for the better part of her life. Never before had she let it slip out, and never as a replacement for her husband, Nate’s name.

_He’ll hardly be offended,_ she thought with dark amusement, swallowing down a sob. _And there isn’t anyone around to gossip._

“Romanov,” Garvey repeated slowly. “We figured Concord would be a safe place to settle —those raiders proved us wrong. But…”

_‘Romanov’,_ with a masculine suffix. She did not make to correct him.

“If you show them they picked the wrong fight, we’ll heading for the place Mama Murphy knows about: Sanctuary.”

Romanov’s eyes fell on Mama Murphy, rocking slightly where she sat, the shifting of her weight causing the old chair to creak out a soft rhythm. Her small eyes were glazed over, and an idle hand reached up to one of the large pendants hanging from her ear.

“Yeah, I just came from that way,” Romanov said, keeping her voice even. “Seems safe. No raiders, at least.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Garvey said, distractedly, and returned to describing what he wanted her to do to help them out of the museum.

He failed to mention that these days, it was perfectly reasonable for a giant lizard of death to headline a shootout. She got too close as she tried to just _slow_ it down, and it knocked her back with a forceful shove. 

Romanov slammed to the ground, pinned by her own power armour. She struggled with the suit, unable to muster the strength to get back to her feet. Panicked, she watched the beast lumber towards her through the visor of the armour, fogging with her hot, short breaths.

_At least take it out with you!_ she urged herself. _There’ll be one less deadly thing out here to stare down the Minuteman and his people._ She gritted her teeth as she heaved the minigun in her aching arms, and lizard guts coated her visor.

She returned to the Museum of Freedom with uneven steps, reeking of sweat, rust, and gore. The power armour had to be abandoned, for all the hits it had taken. She exchanged it and the minigun for a missile launcher and grenades she found on the bodies of raiders. Explosives required a lot less spray-and-praying and meant she could make quick business of a firefight.

Romanov stumbled towards Garvey and the other survivors, wanting nothing more than to lay down and sleep for another two centuries and then some.

“That was… a pretty amazing display,” Garvey praised, though fatigue was etched into his features. “I’m just glad you’re on our side.”

Romanov gave a quick glance to the other survivors —Sturges against the wall, Mama Murphy watching her through clouded eyes, and Marcy and Jun sitting on the floor, staring at nothing. Romanov had lived a couple of days in the apocalypse, and seen some truly dire shit. What had they seen, throughout their entire respective lives?

_I’ll sleep when I’m dead, should the day come,_ she thought, rolling out her stiff left shoulder. She’d landed hard on it. “Everyone’s okay?”

“Yeah. For a while anyway.” Garvey handed her something he’d been holding. “For your gun,” he said, as she accepted and pocketed the fusion cells. Then, he dove a hand into one of his inner coat pockets and withdrew a handful of bottlecaps.

It took her a second to realise he was offering to compensate her from saving their lives, and the frown on her face deepened. “Don’t pay me,” she breathed, taking a step back with a shake of her head. A cursory glance put Garvey’s determination of the lives of all five of his people at about a hundred caps. Fucking apocalypse. She could almost feel Nate by her side, growing angry with her. “Fuck no.” 

He withdrew his hand, although his voice remained sceptical. “Hey, sorry. I'm used to everyone being in it only for themselves.” He paused. “What’s next for you?”

“I’m taking you to Sanctuary Hills.”

Garvey opened his mouth to speak, but a gravelly, slow voice cut in. “Oh, that's wonderful. But there's more to your destiny, isn't there?” Mama Murphy was leaning forward where she sat, eyes dancing. She did not have the face of a sober woman. “I've seen it. And I know your pain.”

Romanov shifted her weight, trying to pretend that the museum wasn’t completely unnerving her with its many mannequins and motion-activated recordings. “That so?”

“You’re a person out of time —out of hope. But all’s not lost. I can feel… _your son’s energy._ He’s alive.”

The buzzing in Romanov’s ears grew louder. “My son,” she repeated. “Where is he?”

“I can only feel him,” Murphy replied, somewhere beneath the static. It was a credit to _the Sight,_ apparently —Murphy’s seer-like ability somewhat conveniently fuelled by psychedelics.

Shaun… it was hard to keep herself from thinking of all the sick reasons people in this world would have to kidnap an infant. What life would he be raised to, if he made it so far? Her stomach churned.

Garvey was speaking, Romanov only catching the end of his apologetic sentence. “…I know how this world can be.” His eyes held a kernel of sympathy.

_For all the crap people of this place must endure, I’d bet pity is difficult to muster._

She asked for a place for her search to begin, and Mama Murphy named it: ‘The Great, Green Jewel of the Commonwealth’. 

Romanov’s eyes lifted to Garvey’s searching for confirmation. “Diamond City is the biggest settlement in the Commonwealth,” he supplied. “There’s bound to be someone there to help.” He didn’t question the Pip-Boy she extended out to him, and he pointed it out for her on the map.

She brought them, bloody and fatigued, to that quaint and cute cul-de-sac. They could have it. Better it be put to worthwhile use than see the place completely razed, which was an option she’d been seriously considering.

As they set up, gathering old lawn chairs and beds from the vacant houses of Sanctuary Hills, Romanov almost prevented them from entering hers, and then stopped, puzzled at her own sentimental impulse. A reminder of everything she’d lost. Is that what she really wanted? A torturous shrine to the worst thing that ever could’ve happened to her. _Sounds healthy._

Only some eight months ago from her perspective, she’d been prodding at Nate for them to move to the little domestic paradise. It seemed idyllic, complete with neighbourhood barbecues and quiet streets. Close to the heart of Concord, too. Even then, as she laid out everything that would’ve made Sanctuary Hills the perfect place for them to raise their kid, something about the place made her want to tear out her hair. 

Now that the world had gone to shit, she didn’t have to live there anymore. She gathered a few important things and set up in the Red Rocket truck stop, where she stashed the surviving parts of the power armour.

She began to clean up, constantly glancing up at the dark skies with a wary eye. A dark cloud was rolling in, obscuring the myriad stars she’d been admiring. Every so often, the sky flashed green, and thunder shook the ground. As the green lightning drew nearer, she retreated inside, sitting on the workshop floor as she ate some cockroach — _sorry, radroach_ — meat she cooked up earlier. 

The place seemed wholly unpicked through, the workshop still full of tools and supplies. She’d need to find a way to keep the place protected, with more than just a makeshift trip alarm, but it could be hers, while she searched for her son. It was secluded enough for her to wallow in peace but close enough to Sanctuary that she could brush by other human beings that didn’t want to kill her on sight, whenever she felt lonely.

Romanov spent the rest of the evening sorting scrap as the rain pattered on the ground outside until the rain splashed up and set off her Geiger counter, confirming her suspicions of the storm being radioactive. She heaved the workshop door shut, claimed an old, tattered mattress, and screamed into it until she fell asleep.

She didn’t wake to a familiar dip in the mattress by her side, nor the sound of a kettle boiling from the next room. When she was kept up at night, it wasn’t because of Shaun’s fussing and refusing to sleep, but because she heard every sound in the fallout outside. 

Every movement of the wind, the random groaning of the truck stop… Romanov strained through it all, into the silence. With each passing second, a monster or raider could be making their way over the scarred hills and cracked road, and make quick work of her in her sleep.

It never happened. She was alone.

She took stock the next couple of days. It took some persuading to get Sturges down, but he helped her out with her more complex tinkering concerns. She wasn’t much of a gearhead, but wasn’t completely useless, either. 

She gave him a few caps for his trouble, unsure of whether or not that was the proper thing to do, and he accepted, with a promise that should she ever need more help, he’d visit. It probably wasn’t necessary. She was a fast learner.

Talking to other human beings instead of a robot brought her mind back to where it belonged. She assuaged the buzzing of terror in her ears by learning about how The Commonwealth now worked. Bottlecaps, not coins. Tatos, not spuds. Tyrants, not leaders. Yeah, that last one she was starting to figure out on her own.

_Good to know the world turning to shit means the death of every industry but weapons._ Well, that and chems. She’d found a shitload so far on the bodies of raiders, and squirrelled away in a number of shelters and hiding places. She stockpiled all she found in a drawstring bag she’d scrounged up, figuring it would be worth a lot to some addict too out of their minds to fire at her with any accuracy. Mama Murphy, it turns out, fit that criterion, but it felt especially cruel and negligent to try to sell her any.

Sometimes, her hand reached into the bag, searching for anything to assuage the dread in the pit of her stomach. When she was too quiet, a barrage of turbulent thoughts threatened to debilitate her. When she closed her eyes, she watched a nuclear bomb explode over her husband’s shoulder.

A drug high probably did something about that, right? 

The impulse fled when she realised she didn’t know what jet or mentats would do to her. She hadn’t paid much mind to them, before. 

_Well,_ she thought with a sigh, gazing around her cleaner setup in the Red Rocket truck stop. _I can only put off my journey into Diamond City for so long._

Garvey warned her of the raiders lurking between her and there. It didn’t help that her bright blue vault suit made her easy to spot, either, but she hadn’t quite progressed to the undressing-people-she-killed stage of being a murderer. 

She studied her map and hummed in interest. Diamond City appeared to be where Fenway Park was. She knew the way.

“Alright,” she muttered, running a hand back through her hair. “I’m stalling.”

* * *

The novelty of Diamond City wore off quickly. At first, Romanov was just glad to be somewhere the super mutants couldn’t get her, and the hot noodles were fucking heaven, but she was completely unprepared for the panic about synthetic humans, some conspiracy about the mayor, and the group of assholes that mapped out their social class by referencing a stadium seating plan.

She thought it was a harmless paranoia at first. The journalist and her sister were just shit-stirring to sell a paper. What better way than to conjure a Schrödinger’s Cat of enemies, somehow everywhere and nowhere, responsible for bad deeds at random and without a clear motive. The vague, sanitised name was just ominous enough to worm its way into an already hypervigilant brain.

When she saw a settler get shot for accusing his brother of being a _synth_ , she reevaluated. Definitely paranoia, but now with a death toll that she’d confirmed for herself.

Yeah, whatever the fuck was going on with the Synths, she wanted nothing to do with. She told the journalist —Piper— as much, as she had something more pressing to worry about. Piper, not too offended, pointed her in the direction of a detective. The only detective in the Commonwealth, but a good one. Oh, and he’d gone missing.

_This fucking place._ “Is there someplace I can sleep?”

“If you’ve got caps, there’s the Dugout Inn.”

Romanov’s eyes slid to the count on her Pip-Boy. “And if I haven’t?”

“There might be a spare mattress out by the farms? Sorry, Blue.” Apparently, Romanov was so dubbed for her suit.

She glanced down at her vault suit, bloodied and smelly. “I should probably find a change of clothes, huh?”

“There’s a couple of shops that could help you there,” Piper told her pointedly. _If you’ve got caps._

She wasn’t going to let herself regret refusing Preston Garvey’s reward. “Thanks for the help,” she muttered. “And good luck with the, uh, etching.” Because it seemed, there was no one else manning the only surviving printing press in Boston.

Piper stepped after her. “Before you go, I want an interview—”

Romanov gave her a withering look. Piper seemed nice enough —far more friendly than most people Romanov had come up against— but her rag had gotten a person killed, and she didn’t seem perturbed in the least. “My tragedy isn’t yours to sensationalise.”

“I make sure people hear the truth,” Piper enunciated. “You’re missing someone, aren’t you? Don’t you want people to know?”

Romanov wasn’t about the put herself in danger to sell Piper’s papers. _That man who called me his…_ backup _doesn’t know I’m out here. If this somehow gets to him, he could have time to cover his tracks and my hopes of finding Shaun…_ She paused in the doorway, rocking back on her heels, as something dark buzzed in her mind like a swarm of flies. 

“What do you say?”

Romanov gave a firm nod, deciding. “Alright, Piper.” She told her about being frozen in the Vault, about her life before the war. How, even then, she’d become disillusioned and furious. She’d been a lawyer and seen far too many people fucked over by the justice that was supposed to be fair to them. 

Nate had been a veteran, with little good to say about the war he fought so hard in. Their mornings were spent reading the _Bugle_ , growing anxious and angry. 

Romanov let Piper scribble down notes, closing her eyes. She had always worked to suppress her anger before she met Nate. She’d squash it down, like she was taught a good girl did, leaving her with nothing but aching sadness and lethargy. He caught her doing as much more than once, intervening.

“Anger gets things done,” he told her fiercely, and she clung to the words. It was the two of them, amidst a world working against its citizens. 

Them, and their son. They would muse to themselves about who he’d be one day. A nuclear physicist, maybe. A philosopher? President of America or a sculptor, whatever it’d be didn’t really matter to them. They were going to raise a revolutionary. 

With Nate as a father, Romanov believed it, too. After his shins were destroyed in service, he traded battle-cries for wise aphorisms and powerful maxims. _We have to be better than a world at war,_ he’d urged her, in the midst of one of her dark spells. If Shaun was to be anything like Nate, he’d be a leader. The highest comfort to those he’d care about. Someone who’d see the good in others, and change the world.

_Fuck,_ Romanov missed Nate. They worked so, so hard to be a team. Partners and co-managers. Without him, she felt herself slipping constantly, landsliding further into her own head, wishing that the bomb had just _taken_ her.

The anger was there, beneath. She only needed to coax the embers.

“And then, I woke up to see my husband shot and my son kidnapped,” she finished, matter-of-factly.

“I’m sorry, Romanov,” Piper managed, brows knitting. “Do you think the Institute is involved?”

Romanov narrowed her eyes. _The Institute, again. Is that what this article will be about?_ “I don’t know who is involved, but I’m coming for them.”

Piper’s brows shot up, as she scribbled that down. “How does all of this compare to your old life?” she asked, pen not leaving the page.

“Seeing settlements come together, people trying to rebuild what’s been lost… it gives me hope.” Romanov spoke in icy deadpan, making her real feelings known.

The world, of course, was worse than she could’ve anticipated after nuclear fallout. A few more buildings stood than she expected, sure, but people were tearing each other asunder for more ammo, irradiated food, and a halfway decent place to sleep. She had expected huge cities to rebuild, and what she found was public executions by the noodle shop and bands and bands of raiders that attacked her on sight.

_So this is what freedom is like,_ she had caught herself thinking, on her way into Boston, and the word surprised her. Maybe it _was_ freedom, after a fashion. It was a life without the restraints and mores Romanov had lived through. Why, though, had her mind Freudian Slipped it to the fore? She had tucked the thought far, far away.

“For the last part of our interview, I want you to make a statement to Diamond City directly. A lot of people will read your story and see their hardships in yours. What do you have to say to those people?”

Romanov’s mouth twisted into something real. “No one gets let off the hook. Hunt down whoever’s responsible and make the bastards pay,” she growled. _I’m coming for you motherfuckers._

Piper hummed a sound of agreement as she wrote. “I’ll take anger over apathy any day.”

_She’s alright,_ Romanov decided, as she was dismissed. It was what she and Nate had often said to each other, in some form or another. They weren’t going to be complacent people.

The brothers that ran the Dugout Inn were Soviet, and upon hearing that she was too, —at least, on her father’s side— she managed to haggle down the cost of a room to something she could actually afford. The Bobrov brothers came to the wasted United States from the equally poorly fairing Soviet Union via ship a decade or so ago. Not many people, it seemed, cared to take the journey.

It was so _pleasant_ to find someone she could mildly relate to, even in an inadvertent way. Their accents took her back to family reunion feasts in her father’s sunroom, eating rich stews and sampling the myriad liqueurs her aunt brewed amidst the cobwebs in the shack behind her house. When the Vadim involved her in his schemes, sending Yefim sighing after him, it was like listening to her older cousins bicker from opposite sides of the table.

The settlers of Diamond City may be varying levels of pushy (Piper), ineffectual (Mayor McDonough, giving a speech about how he was definitely not a synth, the most incriminating thing one could say), and unwelcoming (everyone else), but the Bobrovs were exceptions. 

Diamond City had its thing about Synths, sure, but as she ran errands for Vadim and the citizens in exchange for caps, she was picking up on the snide comments about _ghouls_ , which made her realise that, in all of Diamond City, she hadn’t come across a single one.

She’d been attacked by a few on her forays beyond Fenway Park, sure, like she’d been attacked by everything. Some had been feral and some, as Garvey had mentioned to her, were just people. People with exposed, hardened muscle and unusual, damaged eyes. And not a single one in all of Diamond City, a place that maintained it was the biggest, safest city around. 

Romanov was catching onto the implicit message, and given how cold they were to her on the basis of her being an outsider alone, and how quickly the settlers were mobilising about Synths, she had an idea of how they’d treat any ghouls attempting to settle within the city. 

_Safety isn’t worth anything if it’s at someone else’s expense,_ Nate would probably say to her, arranging her haphazard thoughts into a cohesive idea, as he often did. She visualised the head-shaking, heard the note of disgust permeating the rich timbre of his voice. 

_I’m not going to stay any longer than I have to,_ she promised him, collecting her caps for jobs well-done. She was still lugging around her big bag o’ chems, but the idea of putting money into Diamond City anywhere that wasn’t the Dugout made her skin crawl.

_But what now?_ The detective, Valentine, was AWOL, Diamond City Security predictably didn’t care about her situation, and she had no idea where to begin the search for her son. She could just return to Sanctuary and help out the Minutemen, hoping that the detective would somehow show up. 

That’s not how she did things. She made a final stop before she went on her way, into Valentine’s agency, following the heart-shaped neon signs. _Cute._

It was a small space, with the improvised floors and walls signature to Diamond City. Amongst filing cabinets and boxes, a woman stood with her back to Romanov, sighing sadly and picking her way through papers.

“Excuse me, miss.”

She whirled around a little hopefully, as if expecting someone else to be standing over Romanov’s shoulder. Her face fell. “Another stray coming in from the rain. ‘Fraid you’re too late, honey. Office is closed.”

“I heard about Valentine. I’m here to help. Do you know what happened?”

She let out a long, forlorn sigh. “Nick was working a case. Skinny Malone’s gang had kidnapped a young woman, and he was tracking them. I told him he was walking into a trap but he just smiled and walked out the door like he always does.”

“I’m not from around here, so you’ll have to go easy on me,” began Romanov, and the secretary’s eyes dropped to her vault suit. “Skinny Malone is…?”

“I don’t know much about him but he’s from Goodneighbor, and that means he’s in the well-pressed suits and machine guns schools of thuggery.”

“Mobster type. Okay.” More new territory, and logistically dicey to take on organised crime, but it was hardly a frightening prospect. “You said Goodneighbor?”

“Yeah, it’s a tough neighbourhood. Northeast a ways. People with power there care about two things: style and body count. Oh.” She pointed it out on Romanov’s extended Pip-Boy.

“I promise I’ll find him,” Romanov said. “He’ll be back soon.”

She seemed to understand how fiercely Romanov meant it and nodded slowly. “Please be careful.”

Shouldering her packs and keeping a palm pressed to her hip holster, she left the Great Green Jewel. On the outside, she took in a deep, much-needed breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooooooooo boy. This is the first fic I've written AND the first time I've let people read my writing since I was fifteen and I am nervous as hell!! I conceived of this plot in a frenzy during three days of listening to Wasteland, Baby! by Hozier on repeat, naturally.
> 
> I've already written 50k words of this fic —mostly out of order— and it is mostly canon-adjacent.


	2. These Days

Hancock loved Goodneighbor in the rain. Something about the gloomy grey skies made his town shine, like the reflection of saturated neon signs on the glossy pavement. It was a good day for surveying the neighbourhood.

Some drifters packed into ramshackle shelters of corrugated iron that thrummed under the tinny tattoo of rain. Most of the neighbourhood watch stood under awnings, and a couple of triggermen wandered between warehouses. When the doors opened, the bubbling of commotion could be heard from inside.

“I don’t like it,” Hancock muttered, and his bodyguard, Fahrenheit, grunted in agreement. “There’s too many of them. They’re getting testy.”

“I’ll get a few guys together and take them out. Should be easy.” The thought of it seemed enough to make her smile. She’d been complaining lately that it’d been a while since she stretched her legs. 

“There’s a thought.” He considered it on their way back to the Old State House and stopped, turning to face her. “They’d be likely to take it personally, though. Then we’re at war with the triggermen.”

She looked a little disappointed. “We need someone unattached, then.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

“MacCready needs sunlight.” Fahrenheit’s eyes ticked over Hancock’s shoulder, towards the gate.

That the merc did. “Better not to be direct. I’ll talk to Chuck, and have him float it with whoever’s looking for work. MacCready doesn’t need us to brief him.” _And maybe someone less expensive will claim the job first._ Fahrenheit still was distracted. “Anyone interesting drop by?”

“Newcomer in a vault suit. And… damn, that’s a Pip-Boy.” Her eyes narrowed, probably harmlessly wondering, as Hancock was, the logistics of lifting it without the wearer noticing.

“Who do I gotta pay to get me one of those?” Hancock gave a passing glance as we went to open the Old State House door.

“Motherfuck. It’s Finn, again.”

Hancock paused to look, Finn approaching the newcomer, not shy under her withering glare. Hancock growled. “Now that’s just a shame.” He was pretty sure he’d given Finn enough clarity on how Goodneighbor tolerated extorting fish.

“He’s going to keep making trouble. I told you that, didn’t I?” Fahrenheit almost seemed excited until she met Hancock’s eye, realising he wasn’t going to let her at him.

Finn’s rough voice carried. “You hand over everything you got in them pockets, or ‘accidents' start happenin' to ya. Big, bloody, ‘accidents.’”

Fucking hell. What would it take for this guy to _get_ this town? Hancock drew away from the door and strode over, not without a deliberate glance at Fahrenheit. She gave him a look of understanding and stayed put, leaning against the old brick wall of _Kill or Be Killed_. 

“Whoa, whoa. Time out.” As Hancock approached, he gave the newcomer a passing glance. She was fuming, breathing hard in the rain. Her hand hovered near a pistol on her right hip. She was otherwise armed, with a missile launcher slung over her back, visible from beneath a bulky backpack, and a baton hung at her left side. He found himself wondering how much use any of her weapons had seen. Finn had taken a gamble, stepping to her.

He continued, “Someone steps through the gate for the first time, they’re a guest. You lay off that extortion crap.”

Finn’s lip ticked into a scowl at Hancock’s voice, and he turned. “What do you care? She ain’t one of us.”

_Well, that’s a damn shame._ And here Hancock had been hoping —perhaps too optimistically— that Finn would shut up and back down. There was only one way this sort of thing ended, and Hancock really couldn’t have someone undermine him and Goodneighbor. 

Through his own general assholery, Finn found himself with Hancock’s knife between his ribs, staining the entranceway with more blood. 

Hancock released Finn, who fell to the ground at his feet and stared down at him with a twinge of pity. This was one of his political duties he cared for least, and now he had to clean the blood from his knife. “Now why’d you have to go and say that, huh—?”

“Shit.” The Vault Dweller was standing with her weight on her back foot, mouth fixed into a grimace as her wide, alert eyes fixed on Finn’s body. He looked at her properly now, doing away with his theory that she was merely a mercenary who looted a vault corpse. Even beneath her fresh bruises and bloodstains, it was apparent her clear, smooth skin hadn’t dealt with the hard times the rest of them had on the surface.

Hancock pocketed the knife and calmly rested his hand in his sash. For all he knew, the newcomer could’ve popped out of a vault that morning. This had to be a shitty first impression of his town for someone so doe-eyed. “You alright, sister?”

Her eyes lifted and her expression hardened, and, for a moment, it seemed like she might pull her weapon on him. “If I’d known this was a kill-at-will kinda town, I would’ve done that myself.” Her voice was hoarse, though steady. Confrontational, almost.

He grinned. “Could’ve anyway. Gotta make a show of dominance when you walk into a new place, right?” She didn’t smile with him. That wasn’t unusual. People usually came to Goodneighbor for one of two reasons: accident, obviously, and because they were on hard times with nowhere else that would take them. Over the years, Hancock learnt how to put every ragged drifter that arrived in his town at ease. “Now don’t let this incident taint your view of our little community. Goodneighbor’s of the people, for the people, you feel me? Everyone’s welcome.”

At the name, her posture shifted, and she reevaluated him. _Accident, then,_ he figured. No other reason she wouldn’t know where she stood. Were the neons out, again? He made a note to get Rufus to give them another check. 

Hancock, too, reevaluated her. His eyes fell first on the Pip-Boy on her left arm, screen emitting green light, which cast strange shadows on the newcomer’s face, slick with rainwater. She was young, maybe early thirties, and her saturated black hair fell beyond her suit collar. Scratched up and beaten, whatever way she’d come to leave her vault and come to his town, it’d been one hell of a fight.

“Right, Goodneighbor,” she repeated, voice lilting with the same relic of an accent pre-war ghouls harboured. “Folks at Diamond City love to bitch about this place.” She paused, eyes raising to the shops over his shoulder. “And by _bitch,_ I mean compliment with abandon.”

She made no move to leave, which was a good sign. Anyone who could see through Diamond City’s bullshit was alright. “They don’t know the half of it.”

That seemed to catch her off guard, and she exhaled something between a chuckle and a scoff, open-mouthed grin flashing across her face, exposing white, straight teeth. “They really don’t,” she agreed, smile disappearing as she spoke. “Next time, I’ll be more prepared for the extortion and stabbing upon arrival.” 

Her eyes narrowed, searching his face and dropping to his neck. The only way it would be more obvious she hadn’t seen many ghouls up close was if she were slack-jawed. The analysis lacked repulsion, though. That much, at least, probably meant she wasn’t going to harass any of the other ghouls in the town. The curiosity would pass.

“You do that, you’ll call this place home soon enough. So long as you remember who’s in charge.” Her eyes dipped to his coat, eyebrows shooting up, although she didn’t stop him as he turned to back off. He wasn’t a tour guide, and he liked to give people who wandered into Goodneighbor their space. He stepped over Finn, pressing his lips together in disappointment.

“Hey!” she barked after him, and he turned. She marched over, not paying Finn a glance. “I’m looking for a bed.”

_Tour guide it is._ He started walking, and she followed a half-step behind. “If you’re feeling fancy, the Hotel Rexford has rooms. We’ve also got some places to sleep upstairs at the Old State House. Best way to learn Goodneighbor is to take a tour of her yourself.”

Brows raised again. “Seems like Scollay Square is standing well enough,” she mumbled. “I got it. Thanks.” She rounded him, and let herself through the door. She passed by Fahrenheit, who was still watching.

He caught up with her as she hoisted herself from her leaning position. “She _is_ new, ain’t she?” he asked.

“Finn definitely didn’t know her. And say what you will about him, but he was good at keeping track of whom he was extorting,” Fahrenheit drawled. “Hope she fights as well as he did.”

Hancock gave Finn a final look, and sighed heavily, stepping out of the rain at last. The newcomer was already climbing the stairs two at a time. Vault dwellers, he knew, rarely did well on the surface. At least her welcome to Goodneighbor didn’t leave her cowering, but the rest of the shit she would see here by the end of the day might if she wasn’t careful. 

Hancock sat down on the red couch in his office, taking a huff of jet as Fahrenheit sprawled out across from him.

“Did you hear Finn call me soft?” he asked her, his voice bubbling from deep underwater.

“Right before you stabbed him,” she confirmed. “That’ll stay his friends.”

“Until the next time.” Hancock wiped his knife on his sash and made a mental note that it needed some sharpening soon. “This felt a bit like flexin’ my muscles.”

Fahrenheit adjusted the metal plate on her arm. “Finn deserved it. He knows —knew— how Goodneighbor works. We’ve all walked through that gate.”

He looked at her.

“You could’ve let me handle him,” she said, tapping her fingers against her flamethrower. “If you had reservations.”

“Nah, it was nothing personal. No need to torture the guy.” Truly, a simple knifing was a mercy compared to being burnt alive, but that wasn’t what Hancock cared most about. And, if people thought that he couldn’t clean up his own messes— Well, they’d be within their rights to call bullshit on his position as mayor. 

Hancock considered the chems strewn across the coffee table. “You don’t think—”

One of the Neighbourhood Watch, a ghoul Hancock had known for years called Babs, appeared in the doorway, clearing her throat. “Hey, boss.” She gave a solemn nod to him and then Fahrenheit.

“Come on in.” Hancock nodded for her to sit, and she did so, expression grim. “Want some jet? You look like you could use it.” Day Tripper would be better, but that was in the storeroom. He made another mental note. 

“Nah, it’s alright.” Babs took off her tattered hat, and let out a deep sigh. “It’s… Sammy started acting real different about a week ago…”

_Shit. In Goodneighbor?_

“It’s, you know, small things. He’s doing chems again, he forgot we were going to head out to Bunker Hill yesterday… but it’s… sometimes he speaks differently, or makes a weird face.” She fidgeted with the brim of her fedora, eyes on the floor. “It ain’t Sammy, is it?”

“No,” Hancock growled. “It ain’t.”

“You know what to do, Babs,” said Fahrenheit. “You’ve got a good instinct.”

Babs nodded as if trying to work up the fortitude. “Yeah.”

Hancock leant forward. “We aren’t about to let the Institute think it can stick its fingers in Goodneighbor.”

Babs nodded again, stronger, and set her hat back on her head. “I’ll deal with this,” she promised, and excused herself. 

He and Fahrenheit exchanged a long look. When they finally spoke, they did so at the same time.

“Detection is our only defence—” Fahrenheit.

“We can’t let people get scared—” Hancock. They looked at each other again.

Fahrenheit nodded. “You’re right. People on edge get impulsive. More so in a crowd.”

And didn’t Hancock know it. “When this gets around, folks’ll be looking to their mayor to say something. Are you worried?”

She stretched out her neck and made a low, thoughtful sound. “No,” she said, at last. “Everyone here knows each other. This—” she nodded towards the way Babs left. “—Shows that people are sharp. The Institute doesn’t understand what makes Goodneighbor tick, and we’ll pick out the imposters easily.”

“Damn right.” Goodneighbor may not have been the cleanest, most savoury of places, but folks understood banding together against any external threat —be it super mutants or the Institute. There was always some kind of threat. “The Watch needs to be self-sufficient about detecting Institute Synths.”

“You give your pep-talk and I’ll give mine. Until then, I’ve got a date. Don’t go anywhere.” She made for the door.

“Your curfew is eleven o’clock,” he called after her, and his smug smile deepened when she left him with a crude gesture.

He settled for the night with a few doses of jet until he, eventually, wandered his way over to the room across the hall, to the rickety bed he kept on forgetting to get fixed. He set down his coat and hat in the usual spot at the end of his bed, and then froze, realising he’d done so on muscle memory alone.

“What the fuck.” It was a little too loud, echoing in the mayor’s quarters. He didn’t care, staring down at the old, stained mattress. _Jesus fucking Christ. When did I plateau, and why didn’t anyone tell me._ He untied his bloody sash, remembering Finn.

_You’re soft, Hancock._

How long had it been since the last super mutant attack? They were only a block or so away. He and Fahrenheit could get an outfit together and make work of them. Yeah, he’d ask her about it. Tomorrow, maybe, or the day after if he forgot.

_So you clear them out,_ his brain entertained, as he laid down. _What then? Back to holing up in the Old State House? In Vic’s old bed in his old quarters?_ In the low lamplight, his eyes found the door to the balcony from which he’d hung Vic. 

Being bored and monotonous didn’t mean Hancock was becoming a despot. _Being out of touch might, though._ He scoffed at himself now, with a hint of self-awareness. _Sound the alarms._

The jet eventually sent him on his way, and into a string of hazy, disjointed nightmares in shades of red. How he longed for the old days of narrative-driven shitty dreams that didn’t end in explosions.

The wooden ceiling that separated him from the attic groaned and spat dust as Hancock came to. Somewhere close, people were yelling, and he realised the explosion wasn’t something he’d dreamt. 

It took him a few rolling minutes of listening to the escalating sound and rapid footfalls taking to the stairs to remember. _The missile-toting vault dweller._

He meant to get up to see what exploded. He distinctly remembered making that decision. Sleep got to him first, and he woke up hours later, eyes finding a scorch mark on the ceiling. 

“Hey, Cosh,” Hancock greeted, sauntering from his quarters. “What was that blast last night?”

The Neighbourhood Watchman’s eyes lifted towards the attic. “Someone tried to pick through a scavver’s things while she slept. Turns out, she rigged her things with a ton of mines. Drifter learnt his lesson, boss.” Cosh grinned.

Hancock hoped so, for the sake of his ceiling.

* * *

He gave his speech from the balcony over the entrance to The Third Rail, thinking about Sammy —abducted, killed, replaced. When Hancock bellowed and barked, he did it knowing that the Institute was listening. _Fear us,_ he willed.

The Vault Dweller was down there, expression unreadable as she glanced around the other citizens of Goodneighbor, arms crossed over her chest. She tilted her head up, towards him, and very slowly formed a wry smile.

He regarded her with renewed curiosity when he saw her next, striding into his office. “Look at you, mixin’ into town like a champ,” he greeted. “Take a seat.”

Her stride broke, the crease between her brows deepening for a moment, and she complied, removing her backpack and missile launcher, and propping them on the ground between her legs. “Good afternoon, Mayor.” She sat with perfect posture, shoulders back and hands neatly clasped together in her lap. She waited.

“Saw you earlier. You like my little speech?” Hancock smiled. “I want those synth-makers to know that Goodneighbor is off limits. No one gets “replaced” in my town.”

“Yeah…” She expelled a breath. “See, before seeing it with my own eyes this morning, I kind of assumed the Institute was Diamond City paranoia. I watched the Guard kill someone for accusing his brother…” She winced now. “What exactly is a synth? A cyborg?”

“Don’t tell me we have a pair of virgin ears? You just made my day.” He couldn’t help but be amused. It had to be some life, to be that naive. As he ran down the basics with her, her brows began to rise in slow, disbelief as, no doubt, various implications occurred to her.

“So that’s why me and mine gotta stay extra-special close to one another. Any slight change might be a clue that someone’s been replaced,” he finished, punctuating the statement by popping a mentat. He offered his case towards her. It was a mentat type of conversation.

She didn’t acknowledge it, eyes boring into him. “But… to what end are they —The Institute— doing this?”

He shrugged. “Hell if I know. Mess with people’s heads? Control us from the shadows? Or maybe they do it just because they can.”

“There’s a dire thought,” she muttered.

He inclined his head slightly. “You ain’t wrong, sister. No one knows where the Institute is, what kind of people they are, or why they’ve decided to engineer their own slaves, but there it is.” He let her mull that over for a moment before continuing, “Just to be clear. Everyone’s welcome in Goodneighbor. I don’t care if you’re a synth, ghoul, or even a super mutant. So long as you play nice. And lemme tell ya, synths still under the Institute’s control don’t play nice.”

She blinked. “There are some that aren’t?”

He grunted in affirmation and shifted where he sat. The couch was starting to wear in his spot, from the stretch of time he’d been doing nothing but sitting on his ass. “Done talkin’ about this. But, hey, what did ya come here for?”

She raised her chin. “Mm. I’m looking for someone. You know a Skinny Malone?”

His interest was piqued. “What d’ya want with _that_ guy?”

“I’m, ah… actually looking for a detective who was investigating him.” Hancock’s face must’ve revealed something because her eyes lit up. “What do you know about it?”

“Yeah, I heard about Nick. He’s resourceful, so I bet he’s still alive.”

_“Where?”_

“Haven’t seen Skinny Malone around here for a while. He and his triggermen like to hide out in Park Street Station. Can’t say they’ll be too friendly to an outsider strolling in, although…” He examined her vault suit. “Maybe you’ll fit right in.”

“Hm.” She lifted her Pip-Boy, and dialled a few knobs, while he craned his neck to get a look at the glowing green pictographs. She made a note on what looked to be a map of Boston, before switching screens with a critical eye. She lowered her arm suddenly. “While I’m here, do you want to buy some chems?”

He smirked. “You might wanna talk to Solomon in the Rexford. I don’t do bartering.”

“And yet, I’m sitting here, in your office, with a giant bag of drugs. Don’t make me climb those stairs again. My frail, brittle bones can only endure so much.” Her left eyebrow lifted slightly, though her posture remained the same. She was, perhaps, the healthiest looking person he’d ever encountered. A little tired looking, but broad with muscles, and a full head of thick hair. That was more than could be said for most people.

“No one’s gonna carry you out of here on a litter,” he told her, and she clicked her fingers in mock disappointment. “Now let’s see what you got.”

She unbuckled, unzipped and sifted through her giant pack until she withdrew a bulky drawstring bag. She tossed it to him and he sifted through the myriad contents and paid her accordingly. Maybe a little extra. He was feeling generous.

When Hancock handed over the caps he retrieved from a drawer, she inputted the sum into her Pip-Boy and visibly grimaced. “Don’t suppose you have any work?”

He decided to give her the Pickman Gallery job. He had a sense that someone had gone around and driven out the raiders up there, and he didn’t much care for the idea of a bigger bad staking their claim in the area.

The Vault Dweller gave him two thumbs up paired with her tired, hard frown. “I’ll be right back,” she promised, and marched out of his office and out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise this isn't going to be entirely comprised of regurgitated canon. RIP Finn. 
> 
> I'm not saying that I have an agenda here, but it is OOC in the game for the Watch to be a boy's club. Hancock is better than that.


	3. Hum

It didn’t take long for Romanov to get sidetracked. It was easy for super mutants and raiders to send her seeking cover in the nearest alleyway, only for her to find her route obstructed by the collapsed parts of the skybridge and building debris. 

Sneaking was wasting her time. The effort spent trying, failing, and sending her running meant she was wandering in circles after dark. She ended up squirrelled away in a small shelter someone had set up and vacated, leaving behind empty bottles of vodka and a few odds and ends for her to scavenge. 

She slept propped upright, and woke before the sun, stepping out stiffly from her hiding place in the glow of her Pip-Boy.

_Fuck, I miss coffee. Do people still have coffee?_ The aching in her head, getting worse with her every footfall, was a testament to it.

“Huh? Who’s there?”

The voice came at the same instant Romanov began to dry heave at the pungent smell of rotting flesh, and she jumped in place. In her fatigued haze, she stomped passed a giant, bloody bag of viscera.

She caught movement in her periphery, and her palm smacked a knob on her Pip-Boy, forcing the screen to go black. She scrambled for cover behind the outcropping of a doorway.

_They’ll leave me be eventually,_ she thought, but hesitated, breath ragged. She’d hardly managed to get out of Goodneighbor, and hell if she wasn’t getting fed up. She took her missile launcher in her hands and glanced at her left wrist. She only had four shots, and but the fewer missiles wasted the better.

_Brace yourself, Romanov._

Romanov left her cover and spied one super mutant up on makeshift scaffolding, backlit with firelight. _Could be their camp,_ she thought, lining up the shot. _I really hope it’s their camp._ She held on tight and squeezed her eyes shut as she fired, opening them just in time to see the super mutant disappear in a fiery blaze.

Part of the scaffolding fell, crashing onto a burnt-out car on the ground below. Someone gave a guttural shout and Romanov pivoted, unable to pick its source. She saw too late, a green, hulking figure rounding on her, wielding a wooden plank.

She ducked in time for its first swing, dropping her launcher as she struggled to tear at the velcro that kept her pistol in place on her hip. She got it free as the super mutant’s board returned back over his shoulder, anticipating to strike directly down onto her skull.

The shots came in rapid succession, each climbing up the super mutant’s body until its momentum sent it slumping onto her.

She swore violently, trying to ease out from under the dead beast that stained the front of her vault suit with blood. _Fuck knows what kind of diseases I’m gonna get._ Her hands hovered over the stains, disgusted.

Teeth gnashed, and she fell back as a giant hound with familiar sallow skin dove for her leg. 

“This is bullshit!” she yelled, kicking it in the mouth, the exchange of weight toppling her onto her back. It didn’t slow. Her right arm raised to block and the other fired her shitty little pistol until the clip was wasted.

It gave an ear-splitting howl as it died. Romanov struggled to her feet, panting and sweating. She took a moment to search for more super mutants, and let out an unsteady breath. She reloaded. Fired two more shots into the hound’s head until it stopped moving.

“Asshole,” she hissed, and collected her launcher. Beside it, an unlit molotov cocktail had rolled from the fresh corpse. She slipped it into her bag and considered the body. Wrinkling her nose at the smell, she, at last, talked herself into looting in, collecting ammo and matches, before drawing her gaze to the scaffolding that still stood.

_Maybe, just maybe, they’ll have a supply of hand sanitiser._ Anything was possible. For example, the post-apocalyptic successor to pit bull terriers was… giant monstrous nightmares.

She rubbed the tender spot on her back, before climbing up a rusted ladder. It was heartening to know that people and dogs still went together after the nuclear holocaust, even if both parties were green, obscenely muscular and terrifying.

The ruined room that had once been a super mutant camp was strewn with blood and bodies, marred with scorches. Romanov did, this time, empty the contents of her stomach, although she doubted anyone who would possibly dare come through here after her would notice. It was a bloody, gory mess, and not all of that was her own doing.

A few ammunition boxes and trunks remained intact albeit battered. Romanov managed to knock a few open, keeping her eyes focused on anything but the chaos around her. She pocketed a few fragment grenades, replaced the mines she’d wasted the morning prior, and stocked up on ammo. To her dismay, she did not come across sanitiser. 

_The quest continues._

The grenades found use outside of the Pickman Gallery, clearing her path of raiders. She did a few circuits of the block before convinced that no more were lurking, waiting to pick her off the instant she turned her back to enter the building. They usually travelled in larger groups.

Biting her lip, Romanov drew her pistol and slowly, carefully, crept through the weathered front door.

She got the fight she anticipated. The paintings of blood and human sculptures were decidedly unusual. She thumbed one of the paper cards she found grasped in the mouth of a severed raider’s head It dared her to find _the_ Pickman, signed off with a bloody heart. Her gut twisted.

The building echoed with distant sounds, from within the walls and beneath the floorboards. 

_I should_ not _be here,_ she thought, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. It compelled her to source some armour from the raiders, donning it over her vault suit with anxious glances over her shoulder.

She blasted a locked door open with a missile, and descended into the piping beneath the Gallery, fighting her way through the rest of the raiders and lowering her gun as a man straightened before her, hands empty of a weapon.

“You’re Pickman?” she asked from a distance. He was dressed in a scruffy suit, and his hair was gelled back. 

“Indeed I am.” He clasped his hands together. “Those raiders would have killed me.” His expression grew distant. “Those people deserved worse than death.”

She adjusted her grip on her gun, images of his grotesque human sculptures imprinted into her eyelids. “I can’t deny the passion,” she muttered, and then projected her voice. “You know, it used to be my job to bring criminals to justice.” It didn’t come across as confident as she’d intended, shaking instead.

He held up a hand and took an unthreatening step towards her. “Let me repay you.”

Romanov hissed an inhale between her teeth. _Come on, Rom,_ she told herself. _Criminal justice has changed a smidgen since you last practised. Come on!_ She emptied her clip on him and returned to the surface, her body now heavier than ever.

She kept her pistol drawn on the walk back to Goodneighbor. It didn’t prove necessary but for a few feral ghouls, now that she’d dealt with the super mutants. 

_The goalposts have shifted,_ she tried to console herself, although Nate’s voice echoed in her mind. _We have to be better…_

She swore to the air. Romanov _couldn’t_ live by old standards, no matter how much he would have wanted her to. When his tour ended, he came back scarred. One night, he reached for her in the dark and vowed to her that he would, under no circumstance, ever fight again. By that creed, he would not have made it as far as she had.

_He always did have a bleeding heart…_

If he could see her, he wouldn’t reject her. But she could see how his mouth would curl in disappointment, eyes rounding in heartbreak. It was so, so much worse than plain, cold judgement. It felt like dishonouring his memory.

“So what?” she spat at his ghost. “You’d rather I die than defend myself?”

Not that Pickman had been self-defence. That was… vigilantism, she supposed. Murder, if she was being less kind to herself. But it wasn’t as if she could arrest someone and try them in court.

This world wouldn’t have been right for Nate. What did that say about her? Not a week had she been running around, and her life before was a haze she could no longer relate to. The moment she watched the bomb fall, her veneer dropped away. Gone forever, or too tired for the upkeep, she wasn’t sure, but she wasn’t the doting wife and trophy daughter she’d tried so hard to be.

_What happens, if —when— I find Shaun? Who will I be, then?_

Inside Goodneighbor, Romanov went directly to the Old State House, and she almost walked passed Mayor Hancock on her way to the spiral staircase, still submerged in her own thoughts.

Her ear easily caught his casual, rumbling drawl. “How’s my little scout doing? You find out what’s happening at Pickman Gallery?” He was still dressed in his archaic get-up, and had his right hand tucked into his American flag sash.

She composed herself, brushing her hair back out of her face. “You bet. And I gotta say, it’s refreshing to know that art isn’t dead. Well—” She winced. “That may be a poor choice of words, seeing as Pickman was using dead bodies in sculpture. And also, because I killed him. _Mea culpa.”_

He chuckled darkly. “The artistic cycle is complete, hey?” He shook his head, humour fading. “Wish I could say that was the most twisted thing I’ve ever heard of, but it ranks up there… Top three…”

Romanov’s eyes strayed to the stairs, and up to the general direction of the attic. It was only the early afternoon but she was desperate to crash.

Hancock seemed to notice and reached into both of his coat pockets. “Hiring you was definitely one of my better moments. Here.” He dropped the caps into her palm. “Treat yourself to something on me.”

She saluted him with two fingers, and he stepped aside to let her take to the stairs, two at a time. She dropped her pack and armour nearby, setting up her mines, although no one else was hanging around. Regardless, it comforted her as she fell asleep from exhaustion. 

She offloaded her stuff at _Daisy’s Discounts_ at sundown, eager to be relieved of her scrap in exchange for some good clean water, and other important necessities. Purchasing a toothbrush and toothpaste was such a normal transaction that Romanov could’ve cried. Instead, she forced herself to stay sturdy.

Last time Romanov went by the shops in Goodneighbor, she’d been antsy and reticent to talk anything but business. Now, as she clutched her toothpaste, she and Daisy got to talking.

Romanov had already figured that ghouls were a result of human exposure to radiation, but hadn’t grasped that the radiation was from the bomb itself, two-hundred years ago. They dove into a lengthy conversation about life before the war, and the things they missed. 

Amidst wistful recollections of the Boston Library, Daisy offered her a job to clear out the library and return a book for her, and Romanov did not hesitate to accept, even knowing the place was overrun with super mutants. Then, Romanov realised Daisy had other customers waiting and excused herself to do business next door. 

“So,” Romanov started, feeling conversational as she faced the Assaultron at _Kill or Be Killed,_ a little too manic to be phased. “Is this your store?”

“What does it look like, baby?” The robot droned. “See something you like? Even a girl with an arsenal full of weapons needs to make a living, after all.”

Her lips parted. “I can respect that,” she said, a little taken aback. “What’ve you got?” _Missiles?_

“Anything that can kill a man, I sell. Except suicidal depression. That is unfortunately not packageable.”

Romanov laughed a little too long at that, and stocked up, her mood shifting once more. _What the fuck is wrong with me?_ She was coiled up too tight, keenly aware of her husband peering over her shoulder.

Thank the powers that be that Goodneighbor had a lounge. It was hardly the one from her bohemian college years, but it would serve its purpose. Romanov descended into the Third Rail, passing by the bouncer and into the smokey room, filled with dulcet live music. She set herself down at the bar. At her request, the bartender brought her beer, and she turned to watch the performer.

_All things considered, I’m doing okay,_ she tried to tell herself. _I may have killed people, but they were killing and torturing others. Now there are just fewer monsters in the world, right?_ If she were harming people that didn’t deserve it, a plucky young gunslinger from a vault would be well within their rights to kill her. That’s the way things were.

Chances were, she’d bite the bullet before that, taken out by a super mutant. Maybe even in a library. It was absurd she’d made it this long, almost as if bullets bent around her.

Shaun was still out there, though. And Detective Nick Valentine, in need of a hero with little concern for their own safety to boost him from an underground mobster hideout. And now, she had the caps to properly outfit herself for the job. She’d been a little sickly excited to buy up the few missiles at the weapons shop. Maybe she’d leave tomorrow. She needed a big win.

She gave up pretty quickly on the beer, leaving it abandoned and out of reach, and instead opted for something to eat. A hot, meaty meal came her way and she decided not to ask the Mr Handy bartending what it was. She probably wouldn’t even be able to recognise the creature by name, anyway. Everything had mutated into something unrecognisable. 

She finished it and returned to her beer.

Mayor Hancock settled into the seat next to her, red coat, tricorn hat, and all. “So, you got a name, drifter?”

It was good to see another friendly —if initially jarring— face. She shifted in place, welcoming him with an incline of her head. “Romanov.” That was, apparently, a decision she’d made.

“Got a first name to go with it?”

She eyed him, mind struggling. She’d always, in the privacy of her own mind, called herself by her last name. Not because she didn’t care for her first —in fact, she was mostly apathetic to it— but because it never felt like it served her. It was a name other people owned and dubbed her without her input. It felt like that veneer of hers. Now that things had changed, she didn’t feel the need to apply it to herself to please anyone else.

Hancock gave a slight grimace. “Didn’t mean to send you down an existential rabbit hole.”

“I haven’t picked one yet,” she admitted, more exhale than words. “I don’t think I want to be the person my name belonged to.” It came before she could think the better of it, and she slowly closed her eyes, turning her head away from his. No one needed to know the strange places to which her mind forayed. Certainly not the dangerous, but very relaxed mayor of the likewise described town.

It was the relaxed meter of his voice that reassured her. “Listen, you decide who you wanna be in this little neighbourhood.” He lit a cigarette and offered it to her.

She met his eye, relieved by the absence of judgement or confusion. _He gets it,_ she realised. “So what do you recommend? Something historical?” She took a drag and returned it. 

“You don’t wanna tread all over my coattails,” he advised, amused.“They big on history lessons in One-Eleven?”

“Oh.” She slid her left arm off the table, resting the Pip-Boy on her legs. “My foray into broadcast television lasted longer than my time in the Vault.” Hancock was looking at her, head tilted to the side. “I swore during my first screen test and threatened to deck my co-anchor. He deserved it,” she elaborated, and took a swig of her beer.

She’d already said it when she realised most of those words meant little to him. The look Hancock gave her confirmed as much. “Ooookaaay… So what kinda shit was your vault into?”

She almost did an honest-to-god spittake and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “What?”

“Different gimmick in each one, right?”

Her heart sank. She hadn’t even thought about the other vaults, although she would’ve assumed they’d been frozen with her. “You’re kidding.” She ran a hand back through her hair, wondering what nightmares all the other people had been subjected to. “Well, fuck me. That one really is a rabbit hole, Mayor.”

“Hey, what else am I good for, if not getting a little personal?” Hancock gave her an apologetic smile, exposed muscles tightening. He smiled way too much for someone living in an apocalypse. Romanov wanted to try whatever chem did that. Perhaps it couldn’t be emulated. She’d never truly understood what people meant when describing someone as _magnetic,_ but she was starting to figure it out.

She lifted her chin. “Town mayor _and_ therapist, huh?”

“Oh, I know that one.” It was difficult to determine how sincere his enthusiasm was. “That’s who rich folks paid to have conversations with and get overpriced drugs from, ain’t it? Decent con.”

“Bet most people out here could use a therapist,” she muttered.

“So should we handle my fee now, or…?” He was grinning around his cigarette. 

“Speaking of, got any new work coming in?” _It can’t hurt._

“Whoa, come on, killer.” His black eyes widened. “You don’t want to wait until _a day_ after the Pickman thing?”

She bit back an amused smile. “Are you kidding? What’s better to get the blood pumping?”

He shook his head slightly, a little entertained. “No work at the moment. I’ll let you know if that changes. You been asking ‘round town?” His eyes slid towards Whitechapel Charlie.

Romanov took the hint. “I’ll get on it.” She took a sip of her beer, before lowering on the table, rocking the rim on the counter, letting her eyes defocus. The vaults were experiments. Every one of them. There was no safe one, not a kernel of truth to what it promised. 

_How much of this was a part of it? Nate killed and Shaun taken? No survivors but me?_ There’d been a few terminals down there, but she hadn’t been in the mood to sit around and read on her way out. She could always go back and check—

“You doin’ okay?”

She lifted her head at him, wondering how much of her grief had shown on her face. She composed herself, pushing on. “What about you, Mayor? I bet you’ve got a story.”

“My favourite subject,” said Hancock. “I came to into this town about… a decade ago? Had a smooth set of skin back then.”

_He isn’t pre-war, too?_ He had her entire attention, now.

He went on. “While I was busy making myself a pillar of this community, I would go on these… like… wild tears. I was young. Any chems I could find, the more exotic, the better. Finally found this experimental radiation drug. Only one of its kind left, and only one hit.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Oh man, the high was so worth it. Yeah, I’m living with the side effects, but hey, what’s not to love about immortality?”

Romanov reappraised him. “Damn. You know how to have a good fucking time. Shame there was only the one.” When he looked at her like she was the biggest asshole in town, —and she could have been— she added quickly, “I think I could use a good high.”

He shifted and made a knowing sound from the back of his throat. “Didn’t save any of the chems for yourself?”

“I, ah, haven’t actually done any kind of drug before,” she said, scratching the back of her neck. “Wouldn’t really know where to begin.”

Hancock seemed to choose his words carefully. “Hate to tell you this, sister, but that ain’t much of a surprise.” He was barely keeping back a laugh.

_Yeah, I can understand that._

It wasn’t unkind, though. “Hey. How about we head to the Old State House, and I can show you the ropes?”

Romanov could’ve jumped in place with surprise. _Well, well, Mayor. How flattering._ She slid her bottle along the counter, away from her, and tilted her head up to stare at him. His face was earnest, not leering nor bawdy, but exuding the comfortable mayoral charm for which the town seemed to adore him.

“When I say chems, I mean it,” he covered, after a prolonged silence, and her eyes narrowed. 

God knew she needed to do something for herself, and who was to say when the chance would come again. _Your husband_ just _died,_ Romanov reminded herself, which made her feel… nothing. Nate wasn’t hovering now, and in his absence was a certain numbness. Not guilt, and not shame. It was recreational. Not like she was going to exchange vows with the ghoul. And, frankly, Hancock struck her as someone who would do a fine job of eating her out. 

“You still in there, Romanov?” He adjusted his hat, and her face grew hot.

_Alright, I’m definitely not going to address that thought._ “Yeah, okay, show me the ropes.” She stood and turned, stepping ahead of him so that he wouldn’t see the mortified face she was making.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fifth character may be Goodneighbor, but the sixth is definitely Romanov's coping mechanism of picturing her deceased husband as a judgemental ghostly paragon of impossible morality.
> 
> 'Hancock flared his nostrils' was a thing I wrote in this chapter. This is why beta readers are so important.


	4. Laughing Hyenas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hancock invites Romanov into his office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is smut. This is your heads up.

He started her with daytripper and a Nuka Cola chaser, and sat on the couch across from her. “That’ll make you nice and hazy,” he said. _A good first high._ He leant forward, arranging his own pills on the coffee table. _Nothing that’ll fuck her up too bad._

Romanov examined the capsule between her thumb and forefinger, and for a moment, it looked like she wanted to back down. Then, she caught his eye and swallowed it down. “Now it’s a waiting game.”

“Oh, it’ll hit you fast, don’t worry.” She’d be floating sooner than she thought. Hancock drew his knife and used the butt to break apart the pills, and used the blade to line up the contents. He could sense Romanov staring from his periphery as he rolled paper, and snorted the daytripper. He let out a languid breath through his mouth. “Takes a bit more for a ghoul. Although, still took a bit more back when I had a smooth face like yours.”

Romanov hummed in acknowledgement, eyes dancing over him, over plain walls and the ceiling. She crossed her arms over her chest, keeping compact as she sat in place. Her eyes drifted back to Hancock, raking over him.

He settled back, pretending not to notice, forgoing a quip or two he had tucked away for the people who ogled a little too long. “So how’ve you been adjustin’ to the wild, scary surface world?”

She managed a smirk, which was more emotive than he’d come to expect from her. “Everything’s really out to kill us, hey?”

“You gotta be a quicker draw,” he said, by way of agreement, feeling his own voice rumble in his throat. 

“Oh, I have a theory about that, actually.” She uncrossed her arms, letting her posture drop and she leant over, fingers picking at her bootlaces.

“Let’s hear it.” Lit another cigarette.

Romanov struggled for a moment with her boots, until at last, she managed to kick them off. She made a move to lift her feet on the couch before stopping herself. “May I?”

_How polite._ That couch had been through worse than a lounging vault dweller. Would go through worse yet, universe permitting. “My house is your house. Now, what’s your theory?”

She lifted the corner of her mouth and made herself comfortable, slumping to lay down. “I can’t be killed,” she deadpanned.

_Daytripper doing its job, then._

“Seriously. Can’t be killed. You know, day two, and I squared off with a deathclaw before I even knew what a deathclaw was.”

“No shit.” He reappraised her through his cloud of smoke, eyebrows lifting. Serial killers were one thing, and raiders another, but if she’d taken one of those beasts down, she really had something to boast about. _Day two, huh?_

“Sure, I was wearing power armour, but I took it down. There have been a few times when the powers that be have spared me when, reasonably, I should’a died. Fuck, I bet I could face off with that Swan people’ve been bitching about, unarmed and in the nude, and still win.”

He laughed, and she actually grinned back at him. “That’d be a sight I’d like to see.” 

The grin stayed, inviting him to look for an intentional beat, before she went on, reaching for her Nuka Cola. “And, you know, there’s no way to disprove it to me.” She took a few gulps. “And if I _do_ end up being wrong…” She gave an unfettered shrug. “I’ll make sure the bastard that drops me meets me in hell.”

A scavver after his own heart. “That’s the fuckin’ way.” His smile broadened, not wanting to interject anymore than necessary. He’d had his turn with the speeches, now it was hers.

But instead, she tilted her head back and breathed deeply. Her eyes fluttered shut and sighed a hum, a sound which seemed entirely accidental. Yeah, she was feeling good. Score Hancock for the daytripper.

She cleared her throat, interrupting his self-satisfaction. “This it?”

That was unexpected. “You’re welcome to more, but I gotta warn you, you’re buyin’ at the supplier’s price. I got mercilessly cheated outta my caps by some charity case.”

Romanov peeked at him through one eye. “Is that right?” she purred, and Hancock found himself confirming what he’d hoped. She hadn’t meant the drugs, that much was clear from the once-over she was giving him and the flushing of her cheeks.

Calmly as before, he took another drag. “Nah, I’m just fuckin’ with you. Chems are free, I got a surplus. You havin’ fun?”

“I’m…” Her eyes rolled up and to the left as she hunted for a word. Whatever she landed on seemed to amuse her, but she didn’t voice it, swinging upright and downing another pill with a swig of her drink. She set the bottle down but didn’t draw back, resting her elbows on her knees. 

“When you said chems, you meant it.” Slowly and intentionally.

“Well, sure, but I ain’t above the impulse of the moment, sister.”

She gave a challenging raise of her eyebrows. “I’ve heard.” Her hooded brown eyes seemed to gleam with little hand-painted stars, daring him, as her tongue ran over her white teeth. 

He had, each time he’d met her, been acutely aware that Romanov was a vision of dark brown hair slicked out of her dirt-smeared face. Purplish bruises coloured the cheekbones that had been pale when she first stumbled through the gate, but the way she ground her teeth, tilting her head back to make her already sharp jaw squarer made it clear that her enemy fared worse. 

Almost as if she was determined to spite Hancock’s expectations of a vault dweller that so clearly had lived an easy life, she held her body —never slouching to hide the clearly muscular form beneath her vault suit— as a direct _fuck off_ to the Finn would-bes. 

Now, her shoulders were relaxed and her smile leisurely and lingering, as if he’d somehow ended up in _her_ office, unsure of what she’d do next.

“Well, brother?” Her rich voice implied the eyebrow quirk that didn’t reach her face. Impatient for the answer to a question she hadn’t bothered asking.

_Fuck._ Hancock snuffed his cigarette out on the tabletop. “I don’t have a problem with an audience, and honestly… you shouldn’t either, but you might wanna close that door.” He nodded towards it. As she stood, shoes kicked aside, he trailed lazily after her.

The door clicked shut, and when Romanov turned, she careened into him, catching him by the belt across his chest. The Pip-Boy on her wrist clicked as she kissed him, without tenderness, and without restraint. He dared to glance up at her, and found that a determined crease had formed between her brows.

Far be it from him not to match her fervour, however sudden, when her mouth was working _so_ hard. His body spiked with heat as he met her intensity.

Then transcended it. She nearly stumbled back under the shifting of weight between them, and he steadied her with a coarse hand to the base of her head.

As Hancock held her, he could _feel_ something between a heavy breath and a rumble roll in her throat. In his need to close the gap between them, it took him a while to realise she was easing away until her head was tilted back, lips hovering from contact. His eyes fluttered open, and she was already gazing at him, expression hazy and teasing, apparently, making him struggle just to watch.

_Asshole,_ he accused, without feeling, as she straightened the frills of his shirt.

She started off breathy, cheeks flushed and lips red from the pressure. “You gonna lay me down, Hancock?”

“I can’t really do much with you stuck in the blue suit,” Hancock pointed out.

Her fingers brushed against his skinless chest before she drew completely out of his grasp. Her right hand drifted over to the latch on her Pip-Boy, fiddling, as she watched him expectantly. “Don’t tell me you fuck in costume.”

“Not always, but if you’re makin’ a request…”

Romanov barked a laugh, eyes widening, and then pressed her lips together until whatever she thought was so funny passed. “No…” she drawled with a shake of her head. “Screw that. I’m not laying about in my unmentionables while you sit pretty on your way to a war reenactment.”

He sucked his teeth, wondering if she knew what she was getting into. Then, well… it was better she be fully informed on ghoul physiology, if that was what she was asking for. Still, he could hold off on having to deal with whatever expression she would make upon seeing him nude, for now.

“How about we take care o’ you first?”

He caught her smug expression before she ducked her head, unlatching the Pip-Boy and setting it down by her boots. Her abandoned weapons, armour, and suit joined a few seconds later. 

Romanov straightened, clad in a few flimsy pieces of greyed, once-white fabric, and what looked like a necklace of found objects. She was even more sculpted than she’d seemed before, and more bruised, for that matter. Deathclaw wrestling and whatever-the-hell else would do that, he supposed. 

_She must_ really _be keen on novelty._ He wasn’t really a self-conscious kind of ghoul. He’d known what he was getting into, when he’d opted in, and it hadn’t really affected his odds on nights such as these. Still, it wasn’t the most normal thing, to screw the first ghoul she saw.

Was he complaining? Hardly. He gave a whistle and swaggered over to her.

For a moment, her smile waned, twisting into something bitter. _Did she expect something from me? Applause?_ It returned just as quickly as she moseyed the remaining distance between them and they moved in for another kiss so deep it sent the room spinning. 

She pulled Hancock down to the couch where he unhooked her bra with dextrous fingers. His fingertips trailed over her hard nipples, before taking the right in his mouth, sucking and scraping softly with his teeth. When he glanced up to gauge her reaction, her eyes were closed and her tongue was poised between her lips. 

His hand that wasn’t cupping her breast brushed over her collarbone, and dipped lower curling over her racing heart.

The sparkle around her neck caught his eye. It was a sizeable stone —a _diamond_ — clear and affixed to a ring, like an antique, only polished clean. He eased from her body and ran a thumb over it, hanging beside a simple band that seemed to be gold, inscribed in heavy, difficult-to-read lettering.

_She must’ve been from one wealthy family before going vault-side. Wealthier than the people in the Stands, even._ There were people he’d heard of, settlements or hermits, still living with pre-war luxuries and riches. She may have been one of them once, but she’d clearly suffered since. Little reason to be here, otherwise.

Romanov opened an agitated eye, and he drew his hand away from the necklace, brushing against her nipple on his way down to find her wet thighs.

“Yeah?” he growled.

“Fuck yeah—” her breath hitched as he sucked on a spot on her neck, and again, when he pressed his hand to her hot, damp underwear. Her muscles tensed and released beneath her as he applied pressure.

“I should probably get that, hey?” he said, into her neck. He pushed his hat back.

“Mm-hmm.” She shimmied off her underwear as he sunk to the ground, bringing a cushion to rest on. The look she gave him was pointed, as she hitched one of her legs up on the sofa.

Hancock caressed it, pecking and sucking at her inner thighs. Encouraged and thrilled by how wet she was, and how it made his fingertips glide over her clit, he teased her. It made Romanov’s eyes flutter and body shudder. That, alone, was enough to keep him content for a while, until she was all heavy sighs and shifting limbs.

_“Fuck,_ Hancock.” Though her voice was a purr, it was far too steady for where he wanted to take her. “You’re— looking real pretty there between my legs…”

And her, gazing down at him, huffing in pleasure. “I wanna hear you moan,” he told her, fingers running up and down her leg.

Romanov’s head rocked down, and now she was looking at him through her eyelashes, breasts rising and falling with heavy breaths. She removed his hat, making a show of setting it down gently on the couch beside her. “And I want you to make me.”

Oh, and he’d dedicate himself to the task, too. Wrapping his left arm around her leg, Hancock ran his tongue along her folds and flicked at her clit. Teasing, circling, sending her squirming and quivering but not as much as when he dipped inside of her, curling his tongue.

She moaned and swore, hands gripping uselessly at his coat sleeves, the couch, and to his delight, her own breasts, kneading and growing desperate. He was growing fond of the way her husky begging broke into coarse falsetto, how it made him hotter, forced him to shift in place.

_“Please,_ handsome.” She whimpered, and bit down on her lip, grip tightening on his coat. “Mmm, fuck… I _need_ …!”

He could feel how close she was, the build-up in her shorter, hissed breaths and the tension in her strong body. She panted, gasped, begged him, and he held back as long as he reasonably could without earning himself a snippy remark or a punch in the face. He tipped her over the edge, drawing a string of expletives from her —some moaned, some exhaled.

Hancock raised his head for long enough to coo encouragingly, “That’s it, Romanov. You’re so sweet for me.”

He cleaned her up as sensitively and thoroughly as he could while she gasped from the aftershocks. At last, she scooted over an imperceptible amount and helped him up to join her.

“Well shit.” She gave a breathy laugh, running a hand back through her hair. “Wish I’d had a chance before you set a standard—” Romanov broke off as he made a show of licking his fingers one by one. “Fuck,” she whispered.

He grinned back at her, feeling incredibly self-satisfied, and took a swig of her Nuka Cola.

“Alright.” It was at least a minute until she moved, hands reaching for his chest and tugging weakly at his lapels. “Your turn. I got a mayor to outdo.”

“You don’t owe me anythin’, sister.” He rested a sinewy hand on hers, as a reminder. “We just shared something good. We can leave it there.”

Romanov made a frustrated sound from the back of her throat, glaring at his hand. “It’s fair,” she protested. “Isn’t that your whole thing? Communists would love you, by the way.”

He snorted. “What, because they also give good head?” He’d read the books and pre-war propaganda, sure, but couldn’t recall oral ever becoming a prominent talking point.

Her eyes widened, and then she laughed darkly. “Man… that might actually make sense. If only I’d known, back when.”

“Back when? Been brushin’ elbows with long-dead political ideologies?”

“Hm. Doing more than brushing elbows with long-dead revolutionaries.” She pulled his frock coat off his shoulder, as far as he’d let her, and she glared. “You really don’t take it off, then?”

With a roll of his eyes she couldn’t see, he shrugged the coat off, and then his waistcoat, placing both on the couch arm. “Listen, Romanov—” He faltered at her absolute delight, as she cheerfully helped him with his shirt buttons.

“Listening, Mayor.” She said it slyly. Her narrowed eyes were challenging —no, _promising—_ and her lips were parted ever so slightly, the tip of her tongue poised just behind her teeth.

Hancock exhaled, tilting his head up to kiss her. There was no denying her enthusiasm. Now, all he really felt like he was doing was getting in the way of the good time he was about to have.

“Making out isn’t really a listening activity, is it?” she mused, and pressed her mouth against his. When the last of his buttons were undone, she helped him cast the shirt off, it landing somewhere behind him. 

He rocked back from her, creating space between them to give her a chance to look at him, properly. _Do me proud, drifter,_ he dared.

Romanov reached out a hand, warm fingertips landing on his sternum first, and then her palm. The look on her face was akin to admiration as she slid her hand across his chest and around to the back of his neck. Her eyes flicked suddenly up to his, and then back to his mouth as she pulled his body in towards her.

With her hot breath on his neck, he did away with his trousers. Immediately, her weight was on him, fingers gripping into the divots and depressions on the surface of his thighs.

Her voice was hoarse. “I’m having a good time. You?”

“Good,” Hancock drawled, more exhale than anything else. He tried again. “Real good—” 

He shook as she nipped on his neck, hands dragging across his thighs. She palmed his stiff crotch through his briefs, sending him twitching and tensing.

Like a goddamn dream, she peeled back from him with a roll of her muscles and drew her fingers under his waistband. As she freed him, she lowered herself to the floor, taking him in.

Romanov hesitated. It interrupted her motion of leaning in, and sent her blinking rapidly. She shook her head as if to clear it and gazed up at his face. “Never been with someone who doesn’t have hair. Caught me a bit by surprise.”

He laughed in spite of himself, running a hand across back over his face. He was still chuckling as she took him in hand, though his voice faltered as she guided him into her mouth. She bobbed her head down on him once, twice… her tongue applying pressure to the underside of his dick. 

Her energy that seemed to have waned somewhat in the aftermath of her own orgasm, but the slower, rhythmic pace that came in its stead fixed Hancock’s face into one long, silent gasp. Her hand —the one that wasn’t massaging the base of his penis— held him by the hip.

It took him a long time to find his voice. When he did, it was in the form of a low groan, as he helped her along with a few bucks of his hips. 

“You are a— a fucking _treat_ , darlin’.” He reached up with an unsteady hand to cup beneath her chin.

The intense look she gave him from beneath her long eyelashes sent a shudder through his whole body as his muscles tightened. Romanov’s eyes closed again and his hand drifted, fingers dragging in a caress across her jawline and brushing the hair away from her face.

“Treating me for sure,” he managed, and his mouth forming the beginning of a curse that he didn’t have the breath to choke out. 

She must’ve felt the way his body tensed and released his cock, licking and kissing below the head for a moment before letting her hands to the rest of the work. He burned —ached— with pleasure, aware of her intense gaze as he came. Smirking down at him, like this was some personal victory. And with the way he was completely at her mercy, she was fucking entitled to it.

* * *

They cleaned themselves up and Romanov excused herself to use the toilet —wearing nothing but his shirt over her underwear, and Hancock took a second dose of the daytripper, eager to maintain the feeling. He retreated to his quarters on the other side of the staircase, where Romanov joined him minutes later, lugging her giant pack and armour behind her. 

They sunk into his bed, though her bleary eyes stared at the closed door, as if waiting for someone to barge through. As she did, she fiddled idly with her necklace.

“So, the rings…” Hancock began, giving her a once-over.

“Oh, yeah.” She took them in her thumb and forefinger, glancing down. “I’m married.”

He expelled a breath. If he’d known beforehand, he wouldn’t have fucked with her. He didn’t need that kind of trouble. “Am I gonna have an angry spouse bustin’ down my front gate?”

Romanov’s lips twitched, but her voice was monotonous. “Yeah, your Watch better stay alert. Man’s got a mighty temper, and when that defence training kicks in, his conscience just evaporates. He’s gonna mince us both.”

Hancock frowned, and she didn’t break eye-contact. “That a joke?”

She gave a modest bow of her head. “Half of the room thought it was hilarious. But, really, you don’t have to worry about him. He’s more of the silent judgemental type.” She exhaled a little laugh at a joke Hancock felt he wasn’t meant to understand. He didn’t press. He was a little nuts himself, after all.

She quieted, and her eyes slid to the door once more.

“Something you need, sister?” asked Hancock.

She pressed her lips together before replying. “No one will stride in here and take my shit while I’m asleep, right? Hence the armed guards outside?”

“While you’re here, Romanov, you don’t gotta worry about a single thing. Relax a little.”

“Well, thanks, Mayor,” she said, petting him on the chest before slumping back. “For this, the chems, and the head. Was a pretty good time.”

“Mm,” he agreed, and closed his eyes.

She left with little fanfare in the morning, no longer smiling on daytripper, nor giving him much regard. She changed back into her vault suit, latching on her Pip-Boy as she stared beyond the walls.

At last, she turned to him. “So, this Nick Valentine. He gets the job done?”

“Nick’s good people,” Hancock told her. “Has a good track record.” He shrugged, hoping that was telling enough. He wanted to ask her business with him —the launcher-wielding vault dweller screamed of a story— but he kept his mouth shut. It was her business.

Romanov finished buckling on her armour and turned back to him. For the first time that morning, her frown lifted and she examined him head to toe with a lingering look. “Until next time, Mayor.”

He grinned at the implicit promise. “Looking forward to it.”


	5. Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Romanov rescues Valentine and stares down some scissors.

Romanov hired the mercenary that lurked in the back of The Third Rail on her way out, figuring that she’d need someone who knew how to aim a firearm without the aid of a Pip-Boy. If she was going underground, it was best not to let loose any missiles. That meant, to her chagrin, she was down to her pistol.

The mercenary —MacCready— was hardly a peach to chat to, but he quickly proved himself far, far more competent than her on the run-down streets. If only he’d stop talking shit when she collected scrap.

They descended into Park Street Station, and her role became mostly reduced to luring out triggermen and ferals while MacCready picked them off with a precision she’d never be capable of.

_If I paid him enough, would he give lessons?_ she pondered, as they descended into dark tunnels. _Probably._ She shuddered to think of how many caps it would take, however.

They had picked off the last of the Triggerman in the metro tunnel when Romanov realised she was standing on a familiar, albeit weathered, blue metal platform with yellow railing. She tilted her head to look at the giant, heavy vault that loomed before her, backing into MacCready.

_114._

MacCready sidestepped her, frowning. “Watch it.”

“Sorry,” she muttered. “The freezer burn is fucking with me.” _Pull yourself together._ “One-Fourteen… I remember this place.” She had heard the number only a few days ago, from her perspective. “There was a broadcast about this place having some rooms left, the morning the bombs dropped.”

MacCready adjusted his cap. “What?”

_Did anyone make it in?_ “What do you know about this vault?”

“It’s a triggermen hideout. Can’t imagine wanting to stuff myself down here when there aren’t even bombs to avoid, but that’s just me… What was that about the morning of the War?”

“I was there,” Romanov began, wishing she had some daytripper. She felt a terrible mood coming on. “And then my vault froze me until something malfunctioned and spat me out a few days ago.” She went through the motions as she went to unlock the vault door, continuing casually, “Kicker is, someone thawed me out long enough to make me watch my husband take a bullet to the chest and snatch my kid from his corpse. You can read all about it in the next issue of _Publick Occurrences_.”

The door groaned and screeched as it rolled aside, and she stole a tired look at MacCready. He stared back at her, and hurriedly clapped her on the shoulder —a gesture that seemed to surprise him as much as it did her. Not sure of what to make of that, she gave him a little nod, and led the way into the vault.

Save for the areas the triggermen had clearly plundered and redecorated, One-Fourteen looked largely like what Romanov had expected of her vault, with no-frills amenities and long corridors that bent at ninety degree angles. 

Adjusting to living in a place like this wouldn’t have been easy, but Romanov was willing to try her hardest as an alternative to death or ghoulification. Not that being a ghoul seemed so awful these days, but the torment and horror of surviving the atom bombs and seeing a freshly-destroyed world seemed about the worst thing a person could ever endure.

MacCready watched her back as she searched through stashes of medical supplies and read terminal entries. The vault hadn’t been used, in the end. Why, she wasn’t certain. Did the would-be residents assume the sirens to be another drill and die on their couches? Or, did they run through the metro tunnel when they heard the bomb sirens, only to find the door sealed shut and abandoned by Vault-Tec? Was it them, the rotting, brain-dead ferals that flung themselves at her on her way in?

It stirred some sympathy in her, despite the bitter thoughts writhing in her head. She’d been trapped in a display case for any bastard to have a gawk at for two-hundred years, and the worst the dwellers of this vault would’ve had was… not being rich. _Poor little things._

They found Nick Valentine in a closed room, calmly disposing of his jailers by convincing them through a glass window that their boss wasn’t so fond of them. When Romanov got the door open, he remained slouched over, watching her through glowing yellow eyes as he thanked her.

She’d been told synths were perfect replicas of people. Hell, she thought as much when she stared down at Sammy’s corpse in Goodneighbor, which oozed with blood and splattered flesh. Nick Valentine was pieces of peeling plastic on a metal skeleton, wiring exposed within the crumbled shell of his neck and temple. 

MacCready wasn’t phased, so Romanov didn’t wonder aloud if he was a product of the Institute or —more pressing— if he was about to shoot her down.

“Ah, my knight in shining armour,” he greeted, eyes training on her Pip-Boy, vault suit, and then her face. “But the question is, why does she come all this way, risk life and limb, for an old private eye.”

She would’ve smiled, if not for all the open space behind her that could be filling with triggermen while she kept her back turned. It was narration worthy of a noir film. Nick was, she supposed, dressed for one, too, in his tattered fedora and trench coat.

“Mostly altruism,” she told him, glancing over her shoulder. “But my son was kidnapped, and I need to know where he is and who’s behind it.” _And kill the fucker. Bare hands preferred._

“Can we get moving?” MacCready asked, eyes searching the metal balconies, 

Nick took point without hesitation, still addressing Romanov. “You came to the right man, if not the right place.”

She desperately willed herself to believe him.

* * *

They spared Skinny Malone, or vice versa, and Nick led the way back to Diamond City. Romanov trailed behind, dragging her feet a little. It was worse, now that she’d spent some time in Goodneighbor.

It made her pay more attention. Some people, like Myrna at Diamond City Surplus, outright refused to so much as look in Nick’s direction. Others —mostly Diamond City Security, in their ridiculous baseball gear— watched him a little too closely.

Mayor Hancock had told her that not all synths were under the Institute’s control, but did the people of Diamond City understand that nuance? Most folks seemed to force themselves to tolerate Nick, and would have few qualms against turning on him, should they deem it appropriate. Why hole up here?

When Romanov and MacCready stopped to grab some noodles at the stand, Nick went ahead to his agency. He didn’t need to eat, so it turned out.

As MacCready went about communicating with the Protectron chef, Takashi, Romanov glanced around. A few people watched her, turning their attention away as soon as she began to glare. Maybe there wasn’t any harm meant by it —she was, after all, heavily armed and wearing a blood-soaked vault suit. 

Still, she didn’t know these faces. She sure as hell didn’t trust them, either.

She scooted her chair closer to the bar and glanced down as something caught under the foot. It was the older issue of _Publick Occurrences,_ the same that Piper’s sister, Nat, tried to give Romanov when the latter was too aching and surly to care.

_Littering. This really is a lawless land._ Smirking to herself, she grabbed the paper and bothered to read it. When she was finished, she had no appetite to order.

_…Mayor McDonough's anti-ghoul decree of 2270…_ Jury was still out on whether the guy was an Institute synth, as Piper was inferring, but how someone hadn’t knocked his teeth in at bare minimum was a mystery. Something to do with his residency in the glass box over the stadium.

She raised her head, and he was there, staring down at the city. His mouth moved, as he talked to someone out of her sight, but he was otherwise still. Surveying.

Romanov finally had some much-needed context to the absence of ghouls in Diamond City and the abundance thereof in Goodneighbor. _Why would anyone want to live here?_ she wondered. _How many people jumped at the chance to spit at the feet of their ghoul neighbours? And how many people just watched._

Inaction was the topic of many heated conversations she and Nate had, mostly after his tour ended. They never really disagreed with one another, but it came up again and again. Even, from her perspective, a couple of weeks ago. 

People who were complicit, middle-road fence-sitting types were a silent evil. Never opposing, lest it meant giving up their unearned luxuries. For there was no such thing as a luxury if it wasn’t being denied to some in favour of others.

And after all that conversation… what exactly had the two of them done? Stuck their heads way in the sand and tried to live a complicit, middle-road fence-sitting life in idyllic suburbia. Like ignorant, self-righteous fools.

“This place gives me the worst headache,” Romanov muttered to MacCready, who replied with something incoherent through a mouthful of noodles. She turned in her stool, resting her elbows back on the counter, as her eyes drifted once more towards Mayor McDonough, and then back to the rest of the city.

_And all of this bullshit, just to be able to bathe and wear clean clothes._ The thought came with a sting, as she longed for a good shower. The Bobrovs were sure to have a bath, at least. Maybe a place to hang her single article of clothing, too. The irony of her own judgement wasn’t lost on her.

Her hand reached to her hair, that only stayed out of her face by the adhesive that was a disgusting amount of grease. Blood too, odds were. She hadn’t caught herself in a mirror in days, but she couldn’t imagine she looked her best.

Back before, she would put at least an hour into making herself presentable, curling her hair so that if fell softly around her face and down to her shoulders. Her makeup was abundant and expertly applied, until she resembled what she’d understood to be the best possible version of herself. The ritual made her feel like she could pass as a person with a semblance of control over her life, and so she’d clung to it.

Like every one of her rituals before the war, it fell to the wayside.

“I’ll be right back,” she told MacCready, as she crossed the market to the salon, at which the mother and son was having an argument she didn’t care to listen to.

She caught the son’s attention and slumped into the chair. “I’d like a haircut,” she told him, cutting into the conversation.

He looked more than a little relieved at the distraction. “Alright! Let’s get to it. What are you thinking?”

He reached for a hand-held mirror, but Romanov stopped him. “Just hack it off. Short enough that it won’t get in my face.”

“Hmm… Something feminine?”

She twisted in the chair to look at him, alarmed. “Something _functional._ Out of my face.”

He nodded, mumbling in affirmation, and went to work.

“You.” The hairdresser’s mother stepped closer, cigarette in hand. “Talk some sense into my nitwit son.”

_Oh boy._ Not even retrieving Nick had put her into a good enough mood for chatting with the residents of Diamond City about their personal dramas. _Wait, am I an asshole?_

“McDonough’s secretary,” the woman went on. “Is she a synth?”

Oh, no. Romanov’s hostility was earned. _What about my face indicates that I want to have with conversation with you?_ She would ask it, if not for the woman’s son out of Romanov’s line of sight while wielding a pair of scissors.

“Fucking…” Romanov steeled herself. “What makes you think she is?”

“They made Geneva a little too perfect. No woman looks like she does. All… perky.”

Romanov took in a breath, and met MacCready’s eyes across the marketplace. He was on his second serve, and was _definitely_ laughing at her expense.

“I did the investigation myself,” Romanov intoned as flatly as she was able. “Synth detection is kind of my specialty, you see. And no, she’s definitely human.”

The woman turned, head shaking. “Everyone around me is a moron.” It set her son off, and the two were arguing again, right by Romanov’s ear, until they released her at last.

“Here, have a look—” The hairdresser was wielding his damn mirror again, and Romanov didn’t stop him in time.

She didn’t notice the hair at first, instead staring back at her face. It felt divorced from her being, unrecognisable at first. Her eyes were sunken and tired, and her face coated in a sheen of oil mixed with blood and dirt. She reached a hand up to touch the swollen bruise on her cheek before remembering where she was.

The hairdresser had cut it shorter than she’d ever worn it before, and attempted to style it into a slick cowlick. Romanov raised her hand the rest of the distance and swooped it back through her hair, combing whatever she could get her fingers through back out of her face once more, undoing his work.

It didn’t look feminine. She definitely didn’t resemble the false-eyelashed, lip-lined pre-war bombshell that Nate had claimed her to be. Not at first. The longer she stared, the more she could see that woman under the bruises and grime. _Being free isn’t that easy._ She tossed the annoyed hairdresser the right amount of caps, and fetched MacCready on her way to Nick’s.

True to his word, —and the recommendation of every person she’d spoken to about him— Nick Valentine was the right person for the job. He identified the man who’d shot Nate as Kellogg, who’d lived in the city until recently.

It sent Romanov’s eyebrows up. “With Diamond City’s hardline approach to the types of people it permits, it seems strange that they’d allow someone like him here. Unless they have a very specific criterion… I think there’s a word for that.”

Nick’s nod was knowing. “Yeah… Trust me, Diamond City has its flaws, but it beats the rest of the Commonwealth.” He turned to his secretary, Ellie. “Kellogg bought a house here in town, right? And he had a kid with him, didn’t he?”

_Oh, no…_

Ellie replied, “Yeah, that’s right. The house in the abandoned West Stands. The boy with him was around ten years old.”

Romanov scooted forward in her seat, gut twisting. “What is this, a slave trade thing?”

“He could have a son of his own,” Nick replied, although did not seem to believe it. “Not a comforting thought in any case… Both of them vanished a while ago. Haven’t been heard or seen since. But that house is still there…”

Romanov stood and made for the door. “No time like the present,” she muttered and wrenched it open, stepping out into the mild evening.

When the house proved to be locked, and in need of a key, the look MacCready gave her was tinged with mischief. His thoughts proved not to be too far from her own as, after promising they’d return to Nick with a key, they both made for the City Hall elevator without conferring first.

“So,” Romanov began as the elevator climbed. She ran her hand through her short hair again, interested by the sensation. “You distract, I lockpick?”

MacCready adjusted the belt across his chest. “We’re splitting the rest of the loot, right?”

She shot him a small smile. She’d rob McDonough blind, if given the chance. “Absolutely. A mayor has caps to spare, right?”

That seemed to amuse him, and they stepped off the elevator, striding passed the maybe-synth, Geneva, into McDonough’s office.

The mayor, a finely dressed man with grey touching the red hair at his temples, turned at the sound. “Ah yes, our newest arrival. I trust you’re learning to fit in?”

“Oh yes. I’ve already become lifelong friends with the radio jockey and have had an in-depth discussion with a Miss Nanny about the meaning of love. Thought I’d just come here for a bit of a gawk. Your office, specifically, is a checkpoint in my tourism brochure.” 

As she spoke, she glanced into partially open filing cabinets and raked her eyes over his desk. No keys, but she really hoped she looked like a non-threatening type of nosy, instead of the I’m-going-to-rob-you-in-a-minute sort. 

The mayor seemed to not know what to make of her —and frankly, Romanov didn’t either, once her mouth started running— and he smiled tautly. “Well. A mayor’s work is never done. Please excuse me.” He gestured to the door.

MacCready looked at him with mild distaste, and it became apparent he wasn’t going to jump in at any point, so Romanov cleared her throat. “Actually,” she started, pulling the Mayor’s attention once more. “My buddy here, he missed your speech from the other day, and hasn’t been convinced you’re not a synth. I think it is worth catching him up to speed.” She petted MacCready on the shoulder and veered away from view.

Over the mayor’s shoulder, MacCready’s eyes slid to a large metal safe, and Romanov gave him a thumbs up. Her trial-and-error approach to lockpicking served her, and she filled her pockets of caps and a labelled key. She pressed the door shut as MacCready broke into a well-timed coughing fit, and hurried to rejoin the conversation.

She smiled at him. “Convinced yet, brother?”

“Oh yeah, sure.”

Romanov moved to his side and rested an arm on his shoulder, causing him to stiffen. “You know…” She addressed the Mayor. “Piper Wright was wrong about you. You’ve been nothing but swell to me.”

“Oh.” McDonough cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t indulge her nonsense.”

_With feeling, now,_ she coached herself. “I can always have a chat to her, on your behalf. I know she means well, but she’s just… misguided.”

His eyes slid between them. “Well. That’s very kind of you to offer.”

“Good evening, Mayor.” Romanov smirked and shoved MacCready towards the door. Once they were on the elevator, she passed him his fair share of caps and a silver locket.

Nick seemed well aware of how they’d acquired the key, but did not chastise them as Romanov used it to get inside Kellogg’s house.

She wasn’t sure what she expected. Human skulls mounted on the walls? A nice big sign over his bed that read ‘ _I’m evil’?_

Instead, it was a regular Diamond City structure. Messy, rusted, and vacant.

Nick paced. “Gotta be something here.”

MacCready found the hidden button underneath a sparse desk, and the back wall of the house slid out of sight, extending into a hidden room. It was lined with shelves of ammunition boxes, drinks of different kinds, a few chems and… _a mini nuke._

As Nick surveyed, Romanov filled her pack, distracted a little too quickly by her own greed. Kellogg hadn’t left behind any daytripper. Perhaps he needed all the sunshine and rainbows he could get. Fuck knows Romanov did, too. Instead, she handled a jet inhaler with curiosity. She’d seen enough drifters take a hit. 

She held the inhaler to her lips and sucked the fumes, bracing herself as the rush went right to her head. It tasted repulsive, and she grimaced. Colours filled her vision and the haphazardly wired lights were no longer dim, as she surveyed Kellogg’s secret room. It didn’t seem so dull and dingy in the room anymore.

She buoyed on the high for long enough to accept Nick’s suggestion that a dog track the stale scent of Kellogg’s preferred San Francisco Sunlights cigars and cruised out of Diamond City, and then central Boston. When they caught up to this man, she’d make him point her to her son. Then, she’d kill him, with the sweetest smile on her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The 'reverse damsel in distress' line is bullshit and haunts me forever. Also, every time I learn about people who can look at their reflection without feeling like they're staring at an alien flesh prison, I get really, really startled.
> 
> Edit 21/03/2020: I have a pretty meticulously written calendar (I have to have it or I'd get completely scrambled constantly), but one thing I didn't take into account until writing a future chapter is the date of Mayor McDonough's election. Canon means to tell me that it happened five years before Sole defrosted? Like that makes any sense? So I altered the date here. It now happened twelve years prior to that.


	6. Black Snake Moan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drama and rumours in Goodneighbor, plus a reunion.

Bobbi No-Nose stopped by Hancock’s impromptu poker game in the Third Rail, just as the ghoul statesman was hitting his stride. It wasn’t so bad for Goodneighbor when Hancock hit a jackpot, anyway. It just meant more money in the public funds for a good time.

Still, Bobbi No-Nose wasn’t exactly known to be a gracious loser, so when her vulgarities and tantrums didn’t come, his skin crawled. He stared as she left the table with an even stride and an unfettered air as the game dissipated. 

When was the last time she’d even bothered to play with Hancock? Felt like a long time since she’d shown any interest in so much as talking to him. _Ain’t that ominous,_ he thought, and moved to a nearby couch to catch up with a few of his fellow misfits.

As the night stretched on and Hancock got the right amount of dizzy, he noticed MacCready saunter down the stairs.

_Was wondering where he’d gotten to,_ Hancock thought, mind drifting to the still-full triggermen warehouses. _I should shout him a drink tonight. Welcome home._

A drifter was trailing behind the mercenary, dressed in a faded, torn trench coat. The person’s eyes were distant and unseeing and their cheekbones were bruised. Maybe he’d seen them before. Hard to tell. But whatever hell the two of them had been raising, it seemed like they needed a long sleep. Maybe after a few strong drinks.

Through Hancock’s cigarette smoke, he saw MacCready and the drifter disappear into the VIP room. A short time later, he thought he saw the drifter leave alone, but he was well and hazy at that point, and soon stumbled back to the Old State House to sleep off the day.

He convened with Fahrenheit about Bobbi in the late afternoon of the next day, and was relieved that she seemed to echo whatever unsettled feelings he harboured.

“She’s scheming,” Fahrenheit confirmed, crossing her arms.

“She’s scheming for sure,” Hancock echoed.

“Bobbi doesn’t just kiss her money goodbye. Not unless…” Fahrenheit chewed her lip.

Hancock finished for her. “Unless a payday is right around the corner. She’s been quiet for a while, right? Don’t remember hearing of any of her handy work for a couple of months.”

Fahrenheit considered that. “Been busy planning, then. Hope we’re not going to have an army of raiders at our gate when she’s done.”

It would be nice to avoid putting Bobbi No-Nose down. After losing a decent gun in Finn, Hancock wasn't eager to have to burn another too. And, Bobbi was someone he'd known from his Diamond City days. He'd run with her in various outfits a few times. He'd do what needed to be done if she was causing a stir, but it'd be a shame.

“I’ve been keeping Bobbi in my periphery, as I do,” Fahrenheit told Hancock, as he peered through a gap in the boards covering one of his office windows.

“Naturally.”

“Yes, naturally,” she agreed, and went on. “And she hardly left that house of hers, anyway. If she has been planning something, she’s outsourcing all the work, making people go to her. Makes it harder to watch her.”

“I’m sure that's by design.” Hancock rubbed his neck. A few people on the ground were gathered to watch an artist at work outside the Memory Den, spraying something new upon the walls.

He ran his checklist through his head. He made his speech about the Brotherhood airship… sorted out the town’s taxes a few days ago… A few personal loans were yet to be paid back to him, though. Wesley, one such drifter that had been avoiding the State House lately, was watching the artist at work. 

_He could use a reminder,_ Hancock thought, and he turned to Fahrenheit on his way out. “Who’s stationed out by Bobbi’s, on the Watch?”

She recognised his train of thought. “Rosemary and De Salas. I’ll check in with them for any interesting activity.”

“Hey.” He stopped in the doorway, glancing back at her. “If anything comes of this, I want you to handle it. You feel me?”

She smiled, slow and sinister. “It’s about time.”

She got her trouble-making genes from him, he swore. Not that he had much of a hand in who Fahrenheit was beyond that. 

He found Wesley by the street artist, and they exchanged words.

“…Just give me another week.”

Hancock’s response was clipped and cold, and again, he was struck by how idle he’d become, where this was the most interesting thing that seemed to happen to him in a day. He needed to stretch his legs, and soon, lest this place suffocate him.

He blinked at the sight of a familiar ghoul, standing by a bin fire. “Kent, my man. They let you out of the Memory Den?”

“Y-yeah! There was a lot of commotion in there today, so I thought I’d step out. And, I’m glad I did! The mural’s looking nice.”

Hancock glanced towards the double doors. “What kinda commotion?”

“Oh, Detective Valentine’s back!” Kent nodded eagerly. “And do you remember that vault dweller from last week? She’s inside, too. You know she’s also a Silver Shroud fan? Said she’s going to find the costume for me. The actual costume!”

Hancock frowned, struggling to remember the night before. “That was Romanov?” He clamped his jaw shut. One week gone, and he hadn’t even recognised her without the suit. That, and her hair was short, and her cheeks thinner. _Topside ain’t treating her so well…_

“She said she listened to every episode,” Kent continued, excitement unmistakable in his voice. He went on to ramble about his favourite Silver Shroud episodes and Hancock let him, if only because he wanted to stick around until the doors to the Memory Den opened from within. 

They spat Romanov out sometime later, and she paused to glance around as if anticipating that everyone was about to turn their guns on her. She seemed to understand there was no such danger and continued to march on by. 

“Romanov,” Hancock greeted as she passed. “How’s the husband?”

She didn’t miss a beat, though her voice cracked. “Still super dead, thanks. I’ll tell him you said hi.” Her stride broke, as if her reply caught her as off-guard as it did him, but recovered quickly, and continued.

_Yeah, she definitely didn’t mention him being dead,_ he thought, as Kent gave him a shocked look, as though Hancock had asked on purpose. _Although in hindsight…_ Romanov joking about him seemed especially dark. 

Was he supposed to be offended by that reception? She hardly even seemed to register him, on her way towards the front part of town. Making for an exit perhaps, and in a hurry.

_She hasn’t been out of her vault for long. The surface world must have finally sunken in._

His thoughts began to wonder. _Why, oh why so self-conscious of what a drifter and one-night partner thinks of you, oh Mayor?_ Even if she was good enough company, with a flat monotone and unusual cadence that made everything she said come across as a lie.

_Not everything._ She was sincere about her name, and about wanting to start anew. Hancock could pick that with ease. He knew the nuance of despairing and reaching for liberation from past mistakes, and guilt for doing what felt like running. Wanting to be better wasn’t exactly _running,_ though, was it?

Maybe in some cases. _It’s the nuance,_ he reminded himself. Maybe people like him and the Vault Dweller would never be rid of it. Not completely.

That was it. He empathised. When he went through what she was enduring, he had done a lot worse than snap at a passer-by. It wasn’t personal.

Hancock moved away from Kent, to greet Nick Valentine at the door. “Hey, Nick. Goodneighbor missed ya.”

“Hancock,” Nick intoned by way of greeting, tipping his fedora by the brim.

“Romanov said she’d spring you. Have to admit, I wasn’t so sure.”

“Oh, you’re acquainted?” The corner of Nick’s lip tugged down. “That one has it rough.”

Hancock pulled at a loose seam on his coat, making a hopefully nonchalant sound of agreement. “It’s good that you’re helping her out. Doesn’t seem like she has too many friends outside her vault… You heading out with her?”

“I think she wants to… take in the sights of the Commonwealth alone for a while.” He paused. “Said something about rosebushes needing pruning.” The gesture he made indicated he understood it as little as Hancock did.

“And you?”

“It’s back to the Agency for me. A few cases piled up while I was Skinny Malone’s houseguest.”

Hancock walked with him across the street. “Your visits here don’t have to be just business, you know. I wouldn’t mind having a cigarette or two with _the_ Nick Valentine. Lotsa folks ’round here wouldn’t, either."

“Next time,” Nick promised, and Hancock let him pass.

As he returned to his room in the Old State House, Babs greeted him.

“Hey, boss. Did you hear that someone took out the super mutants a block over?”

“Oh yeah?” Hancock said, distractedly. Fewer super mutants meant one less thing to worry about until the next group moved in. “Anyone take the credit?”

“Not yet.”

He hoped it wasn’t the Brotherhood. He didn’t need them taking an outpost on his doorstep.

* * *

His interest was piqued by the rumours circulating in the subsequent few weeks. Rumours about the Brotherhood, the Minutemen, the Institute… the usual players. Someone was responsible for clearing the streets of ferals and super mutants, even if only for the time being.

Sometimes, on particularly slow days, the only news was of explosions that could be heard around Boston. The next day, someone would report back: “A caravan was saved by someone packing a bunch of missiles,” or “The Combat Zone has closed. A lone woman massacred the clientele.” And soon, someone would mention KLE0 claimed to have sold a pile of missiles and grenades to the vault dweller that passed through.

Some of the stories became outrageous.

“Few people jumped ship with Bobbi’s scheme,” Fahrenheit had told him, and let the turncoats in question into the room, babbling and falling over themselves to apologise for the giant, winding tunnel Bobbi No-Nose was building, involving a certain ex-Vault scavver type.

When they left his office, Fahrenheit left with them, taking her flamethrower into her arms. Later, she reported that Romanov thought she was hitting the _other_ local mayor’s storeroom, and helped put Bobbi down before disappearing again.

If that wasn’t ridiculous enough…

“Rex Goodman came through this morning,” Daisy had mentioned to him when he stopped by for a gab. “A lady with a Pip-Boy launched a solo rescue mission that got him out of Trinity Tower. The super mutant he’d taught Shakespeare to left with her.”

There was a lot to think about there. He set the Shakespearean super mutant aside for the moment. “Solo, in Trinity Tower?” The place was crawling with super mutants. The hostile, non-sonnet-reciting kind.

“That’s what Rex told me,” Daisy confirmed. “She’s a strange one, that vault dweller. Seemed to want me to believe she was pre-war.”

“She said that to you?”

“In a roundabout way.” Daisy rested her weight on the counter. “We had a little chat about what the world was like back then. Libraries, armies and the like.”

“Weird con…” Hancock had mused then. But, he’d known several people who felt to lie about anything. _Deathclaw wrestling and television screen tests, for example. Husbands dead or alive._

“She knew her stuff. Maybe she’s some sort of historian,” Daisy suggested.

That sounded a little too close to what he’d heard of the Brotherhood. He and Fahrenheit had been collecting intel where they could. MacCready had dealt with them occasionally in the Capital Wasteland, though they hadn’t seemed as openly hostile as they were now, dropping into others’ territory via vertibird, and so openly goading ghouls and synths. It didn’t bode well for the neighbourhood.

Fahrenheit and Hancock agreed that the Brotherhood would either take over the Wasteland or be blown to pieces. They knew which alternative they preferred, but Goodneighbor wasn’t about to take up arms. Not unless they were outright invaded, and of course, Hancock would rather it not get to that point.

A handful of unarmored folks with halfway decent submachine guns would die honourably against the power-armour wearing Brotherhood of Steel, but die nonetheless.

Hancock considered it deeply it at the end of one of their meetings and was assuming Fahrenheit was doing the same until he glanced up at her. She was reading something, apparently finished thinking about the fate of life as they knew it.

“What are you reading?” he asked, a little irritated.

“Our favourite Vault escapee —Romanov— is featured in _Publick Occurrences_ ,” Fahrenheit said, eyes skimming the page.

He sat a little straighter. “What’d she do this time?”

“She—” Fahrenheit broke off to reread the page. “She was frozen for two hundred years.”

“I ain’t gettin’ the joke.”

"Here." She passed the papers over and grew quiet while Hancock read.

_‘_ … _to my surprise, she didn’t have much to say about her life in the Vault at all. Because she spent all that time staring at a piece of frozen glass. Every day. For over two centuries…’_

He gave Fahrenheit a wide-eyed look as he grabbed the next page. “What’s your read? Bullshit?”

“Keep going.”

He read it all through twice and grimaced. She wasn’t from some head-in-the-sand rich family, and she hadn’t been through Goodneighbor in Vic’s day. “She really is pre-war. I think. And someone took her son.” The Institute, probably, though no one knew why they did any of the shit they did. _Killed the husband, too._

“Imagine that,” Fahrenheit drawled. “Going underground for what feels like five minutes, and then returning to this. People pre-war had it so easy.” She sucked her teeth.

“If this is true—” which, honestly, who was to say? “—She isn’t asking for anything to be easy still. Mowin’ down raiders and super mutants every time she so much as takes a step.”

“Think that’s called a death wish. And a traumatised trigger finger.”

He smiled, though his eyes returned to the paper. “She’s practically family.”

She gave a long-suffering sigh and lit a cigarette.

He now had some perspective, at least, to the handful of strange passing comments Romanov had made to him, that had been bugging him for weeks. And the day she'd been by the Memory Den made a bit more sense, too. Whatever they’d uncovered, it had been a setback. If the Institute was involved, the odds of finding her kid had to have been pretty damn slim. 

What had she been doing in the month since? Making a name for herself as someone who blew things up, throwing herself into one deadly situation after the next?

_Testing her theory of immortality…_

She wasn’t the first drifter who’d lost people, or even lost themselves, who seemed numb to fear and basic risk-reward analysis. There was a time in his own life where he threw himself into danger, with a voice in his head —a tiny voice— that willed for a bullet to strike him just right. 

A blaze of glory wasn’t the worst way to go, he supposed. Maybe even the best, most dignified. If Romanov died out in the wasteland, she didn’t have a family to miss her. Probably not friends, either, seeing as all the stories described her as being _solo._

_She could be dead now,_ he thought, and his mind rewound to all the people, friends or otherwise, that he hadn’t thought about in years. A lot of folks had slipped from the fore of his mind. Too many that he hadn’t heard from or seen in years. 

It was sobering to wonder how many of his friends were dead now, how many of them died in some meaningful way, and how many had died unnoticed and alone. It occupied his thoughts in quiet moments for days, and the nightmares of red became more frequent.

Some nights when he was thrown from sleep, he’d found it better to just stay awake. He would shuffle the short distance across the hall and load up his _Red Menace_ holotape and play mindlessly and poorly until the rest of the neighbourhood awoke.

Then the holotape stopped working, freezing up his old terminal and threatening to kill the entire thing. His fucking luck.

Instead, he just… laid back. Got high. Waited until the sun rose.

The sun still hadn’t, when he heard someone stomp up the stairs. Wasn’t a Watchman, because even they had a bit of class and respect for the half-asleep. Words were exchanged outside the door and he exhaled through his teeth.

Someone pounded on his door at fuck-off o’clock in the morning. Hancock rolled off Vic’s old mattress and, stretching his muscles, inched to the door. “It better be an emergency,” he growled, fiddling with the key. He jerked the door open, scowling maybe a little too hard.

“It’s not,” said Romanov, smirking at him through the dark. “Sorry, Mayor. I didn’t mean to catch you with your hat off.” She was completely dressed in fraying fabric and armour, although her eyes were sunken into deep purple bags. She was lean, shockingly so, and it was unclear if she was looking at him or through him for how unfocused her eyes were.

“Are we under attack?” he grumbled, although he was softening considerably at the sight of her. He found himself glad to see her alive. Would’ve been gladder still during regular business hours, though.

“I’ve killed all your enemies in the vicinity, so no.” She stepped passed him and, a safe enough distance in the room so that he couldn’t easily shove her out, she turned to look at him. “I was just wondering if you have any work.”

“Come back in four hours.” Hancock instructed her to leave by way of opening the door wider.

“I’m making productive use of the day,” Romanov countered, amused. “So?”

“Between Daisy and Kent, I think you’ve got enough work.” She didn’t reply, and he went to light a lantern. “Is this about Bobbi?”

“Pardon?”

“The killing of my enemies in the vicinity. You don’t gotta atone for the Bobbi thing. This is Goodneighbor, no hard feelings.”

“Oh.” She chuckled. “No. I’ve cleared enemies in everyone’s vicinity. But…” She shifted her weight. “I did want to apologise to you directly. I, ah, really like what this town has going for it. I wouldn’t wilfully do anything to undermine that.”

That was… unexpectedly earnest. “Hey, you protected my stash. I should be paying you. In fact…” He fished some caps out of a drawer and handed them to her. “There. You’ve grown fond of this little community?”

She turned her head, but he caught her sheepish smile. “It’s fine. I come for the live music. Some of the company is alright, too.” Her brows ticked up a fraction, but she went on without pause. “Yet to find a good doughnut place, though. Doughnuts were one of the best things about the old days.”

He lit a cigarette and looked at her, trying to figure out if the Commonwealth’s new and brash explosives expert wanted to live a life so meandering and lazy. “You miss it?”

“Of course I…” It came as if automatic, and she faltered. “I miss conveniences, obviously. Like checking the weather forecast or… the expectation that when I die of old age, I’ll be placed in a neat box, instead of being murdered tomorrow and made into a super mutant’s fall/winter accessory of choice. That kinda thing,” she said, without inflection.

“Sure.” Hancock understood the sentiment.

“May I?” She gestured for the cigarette, and he allowed her to take a drag. She exhaled smoke and, for an instant, her facade slipped to expose desperate weariness. “But otherwise… I feel so incredibly stupid for it taking the apocalypse for me to realise how completely _fucked_ everything was.” The look she gave him was coloured with horror. “We let things get so, so fucking terrible. There was no way out of that but nuking the world to hell.” Romanov shook her head and stared through him. “There should’ve been no survivors.”

_Christ,_ she was dealing with some serious shit. “Is that what you're here to talk about, sister?”

“Hm?”

“Why are you here?”

She winced, and her expression evaporated, settling back into her hard, usual look. “I’m not tired. And it’s hard to even pace the streets in Goodneighbor these days —I can’t even pick up my groceries without getting papped in my ketchup-stained pedal pushers.” She trained an eye on him when he didn’t react. “I’m just kidding. It was mustard.”

It was way too early for this bull. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Apparently your whole town knows who I am, though. In detail. I really should’ve anticipated that before I did the interview, but all I could think of was letting the fuckers know that I’m out here, hunting them.” She glanced down at herself. “Not right this second, of course. My morning routine is strictly reserved for imposing myself upon the hospitality of mayors.” She pinched the bridge of her nose.

She looked sick. Sick and beaten and exhausted and seeking something.

“You alright, Romanov? Look like you could use a good sleep. Or a feast.”

“I’ll pass on both.”

He tried again, a little softer. “A doctor's operating out of an old trailer by the Rexford…”

“Real estate,” she said, suddenly, as if she’d just remembered. “I’m looking to bunker down. You got anything vacant in town? I got the caps for a downpayment.”

It took him a moment to catch up. “Uh, yeah. Alright. There’s a flat—”

“Two rooms?”

“Three.”

She twisted to reach into her pockets. “How much?” And paid him on the spot.

He took her to the place on the ground floor of a narrow building by the entrance to the Third Rail. She didn’t say anything as she surveyed the exposed brick walls and the dusty furniture, returning to her default frown.

At last, she nodded him out into the hallway, and crouched down by the front door, setting up a trip mine. He grinned around his cigarette. There wasn’t anything worth protecting in there. Priceless.

He was still smiling when she straightened and faced him. With one hand, she grasped the door handle and shut them out of her new flat.

“I paid for a night at the Rexford,” said Romanov, breezily.

“Decent digs,” he complimented, thoroughly enjoying the look she was giving him, the tips of her ears going red. It was early, so early, but he’d thought _so much_ about her, that night, in his office since. The satisfying sound of her breath hitching, the feel of her quaking in his hands… her mouth on his skin…

“Wanna come with?” she invited, and he handed her his cigarette as they made for the Rexford.

The hotel was almost completely quiet but for a muffled argument being had from somewhere upstairs. Someone passed out in the stairwell, too, and they stepped over him.

Romanov was careful around corners, he noticed. She often pulled back to let him round them first, and her left hand stayed by the baton on her left him. 

She jumped, physically recoiling, when a gravelly voice called out to her. “What? No, it can’t…” It was a ghoul man, sitting in a chair at the end of the hallway, book in hand. He snapped it shut and advanced towards Romanov, whose palm touched the baton hilt.

“It… It’s…” he stuttered, peering at her. His hands were empty, fidgeting with his sleeves non-threateningly. “It’s _you!_ From Sanctuary Hills, right!?”

Romanov eased away from him, onto her back foot. “Yes, Sanctuary is my settlement.”

_Her_ settlement? Hancock wracked his brain, unaware of a _Sanctuary_.

“What, you don’t remember me?” The ghoul clutched his hands into fists. “I sold you the space in the Vault! But then I wasn’t on the list to get in. ████ Susman, isn’t it?”

The muscles in her neck tensed, and from the way she clutched at her baton, Hancock prepared himself to step in and stop her from doing anything drastic. Instead, she just held it, jaw clenched, until she tilted her head towards Hancock. “Do you mind, Mayor?” she growled, and Hancock obliged, taking a few steps back further into the hallway.

They talked for a couple of minutes, long enough for Hancock to start pacing idly, pausing as the ghoul exclaimed, “I’ll see you there!” The man shouldered passed her and rounded Hancock, mumbling something akin to a greeting.

Hancock peered around the corner, to where Romanov still stood, unmoving and tall. 

“Romanov?” He strode around her, into her line of sight.

“Hancock.” She took in a deep breath and her eyes focused. “I think I just poached one of your citizens…?”

He glanced back at the ghoul. “I think I know that guy.” Never had been a social sort, but that didn’t mean he had to _leave Goodneighbor._ “He knows you.”

“Yeah, uh…” Romanov blinked, and opened a door. She took a grand step into the room, and Hancock followed, avoiding her tripwire and almost directly stomping onto a makeshift mine crafted out of a bathroom scale. 

“We met, once before. Morning of the Great War, actually. Kinda a landmark day —in my humble little life, at least.” She stared at the closed door, shoulders tight.

“You look like you could use something.”

Romanov tore her eyes away, and slowly as if by force, her posture slackened. “You're right. A _lotta_ jet.”

Soon, they were floating, pulses racing and breaths coming heavily. Romanov called him _handsome_ again like she had when they’d first cavorted in his office. He wasn’t sure if it was merely a product of being swept away in the moment, but the husky timbre of her voice, paired with the way she gazed at him through heavy-lidded eyes was thrilling. He worked with extra care for her and she reciprocated.

_It’s only fair,_ she’d told him, despite it feeling distinctly unfair and unbalanced that she pleasured him with such enthusiasm that he had to combine expletives in new and creative ways.

She kissed him hard and long as they both settled in the aftershocks of climaxing. Not long enough. Romanov broke away from him and began to dress.

“Don’t suppose there’s a laundromat around here,” she said, hitting a hopeful note.

“You’re at a hotel. The one place in Goodneighbor with a mostly working washin’ machine,” he pointed out, and she seemed to brighten at the thought. He took his cue from her and likewise began to clothe himself, despite the hint of fatigue he felt. It would’ve been nice to linger in the moment a few minutes longer, to fully appreciate her and the rare thing they had going for them.

She straightened from lacing her boots and rested a hand on her hip. “So. _So…”_ she drawled, raising her chin. “We gonna do this again sometime?”

He smiled at that. “What, we setting a time and date? You’re local now, aren’t ya? Unless you’re going back to _your settlement.”_

“The place I got there is more of a holiday house.” She shrugged.

_Another thing she’s withholding?_ He wasn’t going to nose in on her business, because she never cared to elaborate, but why constantly mention things in passing, if they were only going to spark questions? _Who is this for?_ “You’re a tease,” he realised suddenly.

Her eyes widened, and she barked a laugh that seemed to escape accidentally. “My God,” she breathed and sat back on the creaking bed. _“Am_ I?”

“What’s this settlement of yours?” he challenged, sitting with her.

“I shouldn’t have called it _mine,”_ she amended. “You’re the only government official in the room, let me assure you. But I lived there for a few months, and now it’s serving as a base of operations for the Minutemen.”

“You’re with the Minutemen?”

“Depends on who you ask. If you’re going to mock them, I don’t want to hear it.”

“No.” Hancock shook his head and turned to face her. “Not a lot of folks taking ‘em seriously these days, but they did decent work, before Quincy. I’m glad to hear that they're still out there, doing good by people.”

She stared at him, eyes narrowing for into slits until she shifted, crossing her legs on the bed. “No bullshit?”

“Not this time.”

Her staple frown deepened. “Who the fuck _are_ you, brother?”

What kind of question was that? “The dashing ghoul starin' back at ya.”

Romanov made an annoyed sound. “That doesn't tell me much. Crime lord? Eighteenth-Century fashion enthusiast?” She paused. “Minutemen recruit?”

“Yeah, I’m not anyone's recruit. Eighteenth-Century was a pretty interesting time, though—” He caught her look, completely serious. “I don't know what you're asking me, Romanov.”

“I don’t have a good read on you. You don’t seem to feel any sort of way about Bobbi or, ah… the one you stabbed…”

“Finn,” he supplied through a clenched jaw.

“…Finn, except for mild inconvenience. At best. But you care about your town —about the _Minutemen?_ No one I’ve met cares about the Minutemen except for the folks themselves. Also, I’m pretty sure you’ve never had a democratic election here, so…”

He laughed without mirth, taken aback. “You’re wrong, sister. I am indeed an elected official, servin’ in good health.” At the face he made, he grew stern. “You’ve spent some time in this place, haven’t you? Seen the gangs?”

“The triggermen?” She grimaced at that. “Sure.”

“And, what. You think they’d elect someone with anyone else’s interests at heart but their own?” His lips curled. “Tyrants come out of the woodwork real fast around here.”

“What if you’re the tyrant,” she said. “And you don’t know it? You spend your time in the Old State House, getting high and doing paperwork? Living a better life than most people in the Commonwealth?” She hesitated. “I’m not…” Shook her head. “I’m working in hypotheticals. You understand this place better than I can.”

“That’s right,” he agreed in the beginnings of a snarl, standing. “So how about you do yourself a favour and back off before your hypotheticals get you in trouble.”

She opened her mouth and shut it again. At last, she stood too. “Okay, but you see how this proves my point, don't you? Telling me to shut up because I'm questioning you.”

He sucked his teeth. _Learn when to fucking quit,_ he willed. _I was growing fond of you, scavver._

“Telling you to quit because you don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. I got people I trust to put me down if my interests change. But if it makes you feel any better, you can tie the rope yourself.”

Her brows lowered. She was glaring at him now, though he wasn't sure what she had to be pissy about. “And what _are_ your interests?”

“Letting people live their lives on their terms and hurting people that get in the way of that.”

Her expression eased slightly, and she nodded to herself, eyes shifting to the ground.

“Did I pass a test?” Hancock growled.

“I… I don’t know where my head is,” she breathed.

Fucking hell. She was all over the place _._ “You’re sick. Go to a doctor,” he spat. _Save your goddamn life._

“Wait.” She caught him by the sleeve as he made for the door and he instinctually reached for his knife. She just stood, letting him wrench his arm free. “I don’t have anyone to tie _my_ rope,” she told him, voice low. Her eyes were unfocused, pupils large. 

Had she done something reprehensible? _Is she planning to?_

“Would you do that?” she pressed. “For me?”

His questions died in his throat as he took in the wild intensity in her eyes. She was broken. Whatever happened with Nick Valentine in the search to find the fuckers that took her kid, it had torn her to shreds.

Romanov hadn’t come to Hancock seeking chems or political weight to throw around, as droves of his lovers had since he’d become Mayor. Their recreational drug use had been incidental, a bonus that came with their first night together. She hadn’t asked any favours of him, either. Only the company, when she couldn’t sleep. 

Company of a ghoul she hardly knew. She was desperate. Alone. And, from the look of her, on an addictive, suicidal bender, with no one to stop her.

_Would you do that? For me?_

At his silence, Romanov closed her bloodshot eyes and teetered where she stood.

Hancock said, at last, “Without hesitation.”

She took a step back and cast her eyes down. “That's friendship,” she muttered and did not stop him from leaving this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chill out, both of you. Goodness gracious.
> 
> I struggled for a very long time about what to do about Romanov being called by her birthname, and decided on just blacking it out. We all know what it is, and Rom doesn't necessarily view it as 'deadnaming' through the lens that we might (plus, she lacks the vocabulary for it), but at the risk of upsetting any other trans folks, I chose to write it as such. For now. I might go back and edit it further down the line. We'll see.


	7. Burning Tire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Romanov heals.

He’d been right. Romanov was sick, so sick, and antibiotics were expensive and difficult to come by. She’d hardly been holding herself together before diving into Kellogg’s brain in the Memory Den, but after…

_So what?_ She screamed it, in a warehouse of dead triggermen. _Your spouse died, you prick? Welcome to the fucking wasteland. How many other child kidnappers do you see around here?_

Grief could do strange things to people, she knew. She played out her future a thousand times, a thousand ways in morbid daydreams. What would she be like after a year in this place? A decade?

Maybe she’d join a gang. She heard they were all the vogue these days. She could get a fancy hat out of it, or one of those armoured suits with spikes. She could work the look, she thought. Not that she’d gotten a good look at herself in more than a month. She was dodging mirrors, more than before. Seeing her reflection made her stomach twist.

_I don’t recognise you,_ she had thought, ducking away from a glass window. _I never have._ One day, it’d be different. She’d get desensitised to herself, the same way she’d been numbed to the apocalypse. Or maybe, something heaven-sent would change her.

Sick, yes, but shaken too. Romanov hadn't realised it, but she'd assumed no one she had known from before the war had made it out as a ghoul. Hoped, even. The realisation tore at her, like an empty stomach trying to devour itself. Only a truly awful person would be glad that all their friends and family were long-dead, just as only a truly awful person would wish for a hypothetical nuclear apocalypse to leave her wandering, free.

_You_ deserve _a raider’s fate,_ she told herself, hunting through her pockets for medication. _To be left in a gutter somewhere._ When she couldn’t find any, she settled for buffout. _And…_ her hand dipped deeper, withdrawing a jet inhaler. _Perfect._

A voice of caution flittered through her mind when she returned to her apartment, in which she’d laid down her bedroll and set up a couple of lanterns. _I’ll be dead soon, at this rate,_ the voice —her voice, muffled as if heard through a wall— warned her. _My son…_

Shaun was… alive. Around ten years old, and looking healthy, if Kellogg had recalled correctly. Between Kellogg snatching him as an infant from Nate’s arms, and Romanov’s cryopod spitting her out, ten years had elapsed. She should have felt it, somehow. She should’ve been aware of the passing of time, she should’ve been _anything_ but frozen and helpless, but hadn’t been.

All those stories of the willpower and fortitude of a parent trying to protect their child were _bullshit._ And she wished so desperately that they weren’t, for the sake of her son, kidnapped by the Institute and given to some other family. She wasn’t a parent to him. She hadn’t heard his first word, hadn’t taught him how to write his alphabet, hadn’t _raised_ him.

Ten years…

Romanov strained to hear Nate’s voice over the ringing in her ears, but it never came. No guiding turn of phrase to tell her to persevere or to be more realistic. Not even dismayed judgement, which she’d gladly cop.

_More jet._

She slumped back against the cold, brick wall, heaving and sweating, and turned her head to watch her flatmate. It was a cellar spider —of the regular, non-mutant variety, as far as she could tell— settle into the corner of the ceiling. 

There wasn’t any getting into the Institute. First, delving into Ground Zero, hoping that the right amount of her skin stayed intact. Next, teleporting. Easy enough.

And if she got there, would she be shot on sight?

_And if she_ rescued Shaun, was she taking him away from a family that loved him? That he loved in return? She was a stranger to him.

The endeavour sounded like an elaborate funeral, much more time and money intensive than necessary if you asked her. She could die right here, far more conveniently, from the fever she'd contracted.

She collapsed onto her bedroll and slipped into another one of the nightmares, variations on a theme. Tonight, she was the atom bomb.

She jerked awake, lashing out on instinct. Soaked in sweat, her wide eyes searched around the empty flat. She wasn’t in danger, she was home. Alone. Panting and heaving, she hugged her knees.

Romanov caught her breath before dragging herself outside. She wasn’t aware of herself and her surroundings until after she'd gotten her caps from Whitechapel Charlie and stood in the main street of Goodneighbor. It startled her, when that happened. Too often lately she’d been operating on autopilot, coming to for brief, hazy intervals. Another slow blink and she was in her bed again, caps still in hand.

_I need to put an end to this,_ she thought weakly. She wasn’t being alert or cautious enough. If someone snuck up on her while she was dissociating, she would be _dead_ , and too many people in this town eyed her Pip-Boy and launcher with interest. 

She never knew if she was breaking some sort of social code that everyone knew but her, making herself a target by revealing her naiveté. She was always on edge, using a harsh exterior as a shield to hide that she knew nothing about what she was doing, or about what the world was anymore. It was hard to know where there were gaps in her knowledge, where she was slipping up, with no one to tell her.

A fierce knocking came to her door sending her heart palpitating. _The Institute, avenging Kellogg at last? A triggerman she’d missed when sweeping through the warehouses?_ Her death waited for her on the other side of that door, and her pulse sent her body jerking like her limbs were on plucked puppet strings as she waited in silence.

Footsteps did not stray from her door. The pounding came again, sounding much like someone was ready to beat down her door.

_I need to find some heavy-duty locks,_ she decided, stepping cautiously into the living room that belonged to some dead fool before her. _Traps won’t be enough if there’s a whole gang waiting to beat the crap out of me._

“Who… ah, who is it?” she called, stumbling to find her pistol. The palpitations shook her hands. _Who needs psycho?_

“Hancock sent me.”

Jesus Christ, had she pissed him off so much that he’d put a hit out on her? _Why can’t I keep my mouth shut? This is the fucking apocalypse, Rom. An idiot would know that a running mouth means death._

She took in a few gasping breaths that she _intended_ to be steady and deep, and disarmed her traps, accepting whatever was to come. She opened the door and lowered her pistol at the sight of a single man, unarmed and startled.

“I’ve been paid to help,” the doctor said, voice slow and placating.

“Paid by Hancock?” she said, not understanding.

“He told me to tell you he has you covered.”

Romanov slumped back against the wall, her energy sapping as a silent sob wracked her body.

* * *

She convalesced in agony and self-pity, curled up alone in her apartment as Addictol, Rad-X, and antibiotics worked at her system. They drained her of all the chems she’d gotten her hands on in her wasteland adventures, and all the rads she’d been sucking in ever since she stepped out of One-Eleven.

It took a while for Romanov to muster the energy to step outside, in her weakened, humiliated state. When she did, she stumbled down into the Third Rail, seating herself at the bar in pursuit of a good, hot meal instead of the garbage she’d been snacking on for days. 

“You left some caps behind last time you were here.” Romanov glanced up as Whitechapel Charlie served her food. “Big amount, too. Lucky old Charlie is watching out for ya.”

With a vague sound of thanks, she pocketed her pay and kept her head down. On her way in, she’d seen Hancock at one of the tables, surrounded by friends and with his arm around some drifter. Since their last encounter, and since he'd taken an unfathomable amount of pity on her, she’d grown more and more mortified with herself.

Romanov had just… been grasping for any kind of company that didn’t want to kill her, which she’d turned and projected onto the one person she’d come across who seemed to look at her with eyes full of understanding. 

And then she spiralled. The catalyst could have been the Vault-Tec employee, anchoring her back into a life —a name— that made her freeze up. Maybe, it started before that, a breaking point destined to come to pass since the bombs dropped.

The reason didn’t matter. She’d embarrassed herself thoroughly, goading and prodding at the person in charge of the only place around in which she felt… _okay_. Questioned Hancock’s authority just because, after he’d made it abundantly clear on their first meeting that it was the sole thing she was not to do. And despite all that, he helped her. Romanov owed him, for that.

She sensed someone approaching her at the bar, and her hand reached for her baton. 

MacCready stepped into her field of vision. “Hey.” He stood, staring at her, pool cue in hand.

She relaxed. “Hi, MacCready. What’s up?”

He grimaced as he took her in. “Yeesh, you’ve looked better. Think you can manage a game of cutthroat? I bet you could still beat Fahrenheit.”

Romanov glanced passed his shoulder, where Hancock’s scarred bodyguard was waiting at the pool table, returning a stare.

“The way she plays, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know which side of the cue is meant to hit the balls,” MacCready continued. “You in?”

She attempted a weak smile that probably was more akin to a grimace. “I’m not gonna go easy on either of you.”

It turned out that MacCready outmatched both of them, but after a few nights of games, she managed to land a win. It won her greater respect amongst the Third Rail regulars and, she suspected that between that and the Bobbi No-Nose incident, Fahrenheit had taken a liking to her. 

It suited Romanov well, preferring to liaise with her over Hancock, as the former regained the energy to work. She ran around in the Silver Shroud costume for Kent and even strayed far enough to finally clear the library out for Daisy. 

She was resourceful, making herself useful and busy as she worked to fix up her new place, scavenging and buying parts to get her fridge and stove functioning. _I’ll work my way up to a washing machine,_ she thought, scrubbing the blood from her vault suit in the sink and then wringing it out.

_To what end?_ There would always be a new chore or project to distract her from the Glowing Sea. At some point, she’d have to face her next step. Not yet, though. She’d have to reassemble her mind, first.

She heard a distant sound as she hung her clothes on a makeshift line, not like the usual though odd bustle in her apartment building. It came from somewhere out on the street. 

Someone shouted up the stairs in her building, and Romanov kicked her safe shut and armed her tripwire. She stepped out into the hallway and her neighbours glanced passed her, running out onto the street, gun in hand. Swearing, Romanov tightened her armour and ran out after them. 

Fahrenheit was at the base of the Old State House, shouting over the sound of peppered gunfire. “Defend the gate!” She turned to lead the charge but paused when Romanov ran over.

“What’s attacking?” Romanov asked, making sure her missile belt was in close reach.

“Super mutants.” Fahrenheit nodded for her to follow to the front gates as triggermen and Neighbourhood Watchmen spilled beyond Goodneighbor’s walls.

Romanov scrambled after her. “But I killed them.”

Fahrenheit wasn’t impressed. “There’ll always be more to take their place.”

They stepped out onto the street and ran to take cover behind separate cars. The super mutants were advancing down the street, taking bullets to their torso with gritted teeth. Romanov loaded her launcher and moved to line up a shot, but Goodneighbor folks crossed into her path, trying to down the melee mutants.

She needed height. Romanov climbed onto the rusted car, and raised her eyes beyond the first line of super mutants, to the ones firing at a distance. She raised her launcher to account for the distance and braced.

“Incoming!” she yelled, and fired, the missile soaring and exploding at the feet of a mutant. She went to reload, but a bullet impacting her armour threw her balance for a moment. Her eyes searched the street to find the source of the gunfire targeting her, but there was too much —so much— movement, people getting in her way, screaming and yelling obscenities and taunts.

She stumbled down from the car and reloaded in cover, before running out on the street, pushing passed some of the ranged defenders of the town. A few people noticed her as the source of the missiles and cleared a path for her, though others weren’t glancing around.

A ghoul clad in a familiar hat and coat was firing a double-barrelled shotgun right into a super mutant’s face, in the otherwise clear path Romanov was to fire into. She watched Hancock advance on the movement, poised to let another missile loose as soon as he got out of the way.

Romanov saw the opening and took it, sending the ground shaking. When the fire cleared, she saw that she’d managed to kill two of the mutants, and set a car on fire. She dove for cover as the gunfire sprayed her way again. 

She heard the cracking of a firing gun from somewhere above her eye-line, and lifted her chin, only now realising that the super mutants had climbed into the tall buildings surrounding the town. More bullets ricocheted against her chest, and then her shoulder.

A member of the Watch nearby did not have the armour she had, and collapsed in a spray of blood and bullets. The sound he made as he fell was raw and painful, a wail that died too soon. Romanov scrambled from her cover to move to him, but the exploding car drove her back, landing on her ass with a yell.

She leant back on her left elbow and lifted her launcher to the building towering before her, and the missile whizzed through a hole in the rusted iron exterior, exploding within and sending the entire structure groaning. She reloaded, waiting for another super mutant to fire from the hole but none came.

She realised too late that a super mutant was running at her, wielding a tire iron, and clumsily rolled out of the way as he swung, having to abandon her launcher in the process. 

Her pistol was latched at her hip beneath her body. She struggled to stand, disoriented and desperate, trying to free her access to her weapon. The mutant took a step towards her before a bullet in his head made him falter, snarl slackening slightly. A pause, followed by another bullet, and then a third, with marksman-like aim. 

Romanov hoped that MacCready was still covering her for at least another few seconds as she recollected her launcher. On either side of her, more super mutants were snaking between buildings and advancing on the gate. Some fell to the firing line helmed by Fahrenheit and her minigun, and others smacked aside triggermen like ragdolls. 

She found another opening through the firefight and shot another missile, this one landing too far down the street to deal any damage. “Damn it,” she spat, gritting her teeth and ignoring the pain in her spine from her awkward landing. She lined up another shot and fired, in the same instant the Mayor of Goodneighbor advanced towards a mutant, raising an elbow as if attempting to melee it.

He was blown back as the air filled with fire and blood, and impacted an old newspaper stand, denting it. She heard him yell something, impossible to hear against the buzzing in her ears, and she sprinted to him.

_The people of Goodneighbor would exile me at best if I kill their mayor._ The ridiculous thought formed in her head as she slung her launcher over her back and readied her stimpack. She made it to Hancock’s side as he twisted, tensing at the sound of gunfire.

“Sorry, sorry,” she repeated, unsure if he could hear her as she pulled the fabric of his coat aside to clear access to his chest. When she met his eyes, she saw that they were narrowed with fury, but his mouth was turned into a snarling, sinister smile, as if he was enjoying himself.

“You wild bastard,” Romanov breathed, as she injected the stim. He took hold of it from her hands as she dove back into the fray, firing one last missile before she was out, down to her stockpile of grenades and Molotovs.

The fight sputtered, slowed, and Romanov snaked around burnt-out cars and piles of bloody, green meat, checking that the walls were intact. Some pieces of corrugated iron slipped and exposed gaps in the structure, and the external wall of the Old State House had taken a bit of damage to the old brick. She suspected one of her missiles was the culprit and grimaced deeply, appalled with herself and hoping no one else would notice.

Daisy stepped out the gate with hands full of stims and Med-X, distributing it amongst the folks to administer to others, and Romanov returned to that one member of the Watch she’d seen take a hit, gut-twisting as she realised he hadn't made it. 

In the time she’d spent, both feverish and healing, the super mutants had moved into Boston in great numbers. She had been in the relative safety of Goodneighbor, wallowing in isolation, instead of out here, killing them.

“Handled yourself pretty well, sister.”

Romanov turned on her heal. Hancock reached into his pocket for some jet, which he offered to her. She accepted it, if only because she was warmed by the compliment. “You alright? Got some debris in your coat.” Feeling bold, she reached out as slapped some of the dust from his shoulder.

“Don’t worry about me,” he told her, breaking into a broad smile. _“This_ is living. I missed this.” 

She bit her lip, distracted for a moment by the passing by of Watchmen. “So… no hard feelings?”

The look he gave her was just as meaningful. “None at all.” His eyes tore away and he surveyed the scene around them. “Lemme tell ya. This classy little tricorne hat of mine is getting heavy. Been thinking about…

He glanced sideways at her. “Things. Am I turning into the man? Some kind of tyrant? I spend all my time putting down the people I would’ve been proud to scheme with just a few years ago. And this? I could use a hell of a lot more o’ this, instead of being all cooped up. You planning any trips outta town?”

“So long as there are more of these guys to kill, yeah.” If Boston had been repopulated with people and creatures needing killing, things were probably looking bad for the Minutemen settlements, too. She’d left Preston with his hands full, and needed to tie off loose ends before searching the Glowing Sea.

Hancock seemed to brighten. “What say you hitch me to your wagon? I need to take a walk again. Get a grip on what really matters: living free. And you and I, we’ll be even.”

_There’s no question of it, then._ “Goodneighbor isn’t gonna miss their mayor?” She kept her mouth in a line, lest she give away how pleased she was.

“Oh, they will. But I’ve walked out of here plenty of times. Keeps me honest.” The look he gave her now was serious, meaningful. “Can’t let the power get to my head. That’s not what being in charge of Goodneighbor is about.”

“Hm…” She gave him a deliberate once-over and stroked her chin. He was thin, and despite being, well, all muscle in the literal sense, he didn't seem particularly strong. He made up with it in guts and seemed to have better shooting accuracy than she did. She hoped to god. “How are you will massive amounts of radiation?”

He gestured to himself with a little smile. “About as good as this.”

She didn’t know nearly enough about how ghouls dealt with radiation. What separated the statesmen types from the feral ones? She didn’t really know how to ask it, either. “So if we were to, say, take a stroll into the Glowing Sea, you’d be fine?”

His eyes widened as his interest seemed to grow. “Let’s not be doing that without a couple of hazmat suits, hey? What’s in the Glowing Sea?”

Romanov gave a simple shrug. She was too tired to delve into her tragedy once more, and maybe some things could remain personal. “I like a change of scenery. Hope you like to travel. I do a lot of walking.” She sighed. “A lot. Christ.” Where could she get a couple of hazmat suits? Science facilities? Fallon’s, in Diamond City? Yeah, she wasn’t in a hurry to shop there. “Man… I was so ready to wring McDonough and his shitty excuse for a city dry.”

Hancock eyed her. “You weren’t taken in by Diamond City’s charms?”

She caught herself and forced a wince she hoped seemed apologetic. “Sorry. I don't mean to be a snob, but, uh… this is a post-atom bomb kinda world. I do like Goodneighbor though.” She glanced back to the wall, eyes glancing over the part of the Old State House she'd damaged. “I’m impressed with how well Scollay Square is preserved. It… takes me back.”

He looked at her as if he couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. “And here I thought a certain loveable mayor was your biggest pull.”

“You’re one of those folks,” she started, with a disapproving shake of her head. “That must’ve been fawned over as a kid. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, Hancock, for the irreparable damage that did to your ego.”

He smiled, inclining his head with mock humility. Always smiling, no matter how she’d crossed a line the last time they’d spoken. Smiling like a lulling into forgetting how dangerous he was. He’d threaten menacingly and stab with little warning but would smile and smile the rest of the time. Baffling.

“Do I make the cut?” asked Hancock.

Hadn’t she already begged him, after a fashion, a couple of weeks ago? She thought she’d been rejected, completely and fully and now… if he was asking, she wouldn’t turn him down. Couldn’t, even.

“Mayor Hancock, it would be a great honour to have a person of your looks, prestige, and humility on pest control with me.”

Down the street, Fahrenheit called for Hancock and he waved at her. “I should have a little chat with the community first, give them the news,” he told Romanov out the corner of his mouth. “Where we headed?”

“I was thinking we do a sweep of Boston, and then head north to check in with the Minutemen. It’s mostly errand work. Rescue someone here, kill raiders there. Still keen?”

He shot her a smile and made his way back to Fahrenheit. “Sounds like my kinda work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhhhh, thanks for reading! If you enjoy the words I've spat out, leave a comment! Nice words are always appreciated, particularly with a project that is... so close to my heart, genuinely. There's a lot of me in this fic.


	8. Body Unprovoked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! The support is really encouraging!

As they hiked up through Concord, a large rusted rocket came into sight over the hill, and then the battered, barbed-wire topped iron fence that surrounded the truck stop. They neared, the chug of turrets growing louder, and Romanov surveyed the dead molerats beyond the fence.

“Well, someone sure wanted to keep out trespassers,” Hancock remarked, eyeing the setup.

“You’re not wrong,” Romanov agreed, and strode towards the gate. “Mind your feet.” She navigated the frag mines he hadn’t noticed until then.

“Oh.” _Oh._ Hancock reassessed the fence that Romanov had apparently erected, and laughed. Of course, this was her place. He followed after her, taking a large step over the final tripwire and shutting the gate behind him. “Quite a fortress you've built for yourself here, sister.” How exactly she hadn’t blown herself up yet was a pure enigma.

“No one’s sneaking up on me,” she added with a modest shrug.

Inside the walls, the truck stop was part junkyard, with the number of rusted cars torn apart and left strewn in pieces, the ground covered in an amount of rubble and scrap that would be out of place even for Goodneighbor. 

Romanov pulled open a sliding door into the truck stop and led the way inside. The shelves were stocked with tubs labelled in a dying marker, categorised by kind: _glass, ceramics, circuitry…_ A toolbox sat on the counter, by an old cash register and a radio, which Romanov switched on as she passed through. The small space filled with the crackling sound of stringed instruments. 

“Take a tour,” she called to him, hefting her pack up on the counter and unzipping pockets. “I gotta unpack.”

“Alright…”

There wasn’t much to explore. Hancock found the workshop first, although the space was filled with torn apart weapons and motors and even parts of a suit of power armour. A couple of magazines were set up on the workbench, one flipped open to a page on motorcycle customisation and the other on electrical wire rigging. 

_So this is where she ran off to for that month._ It was impressive. How long had he been living in the Old State House, sleeping on a broken bed? And she was learning to wire lights and take machines apart in only a month.

He left the garage for fear of messing with Romanov’s undoubtedly deliberate chaos, and discovered the back room behind Romanov’s counter. A sign hung over it reading _Staff_ , and inside was a bathroom, a tiny kitchen with a broken fridge, and a tattered mattress lay in the corner of the room, to where Romanov must’ve dragged it. He set his pack down nearby.

There was also a desk with a terminal, bookended by filing cabinets. Hancock spun in the old, creaking desk chair, as he glanced over the couple of old, pre-war logs and a newer entry —a checklist. 

> ☑︎  _Organise scrap_
> 
> ☐ _Paint walls (??)_
> 
> ☑︎ _Build fence_
> 
> ☑︎ _Set traps (!!)_
> 
> _Fix:_
> 
>       ☐ _Power armour_
> 
>       ☑︎ _Turrets_
> 
>       ☐ _Fridge_
> 
>       ☑︎ _Generator_
> 
>       ☑︎ _Lights_
> 
>       ☐ _Motorbike_
> 
> ☐ _Learn to ride motorbike_
> 
> ☑︎ _Tell Marcy to fuck off_
> 
> _CLEAN:_
> 
>       ☐ _Parking lot_
> 
>       ☐ _Shower_
> 
>       ☑︎ _Cobwebs_
> 
>       ☐ _Everything_
> 
> ☑︎ _Kill raiders for Oberland_
> 
> ☐ _Build Mutfruit planter_
> 
> ☐ _Auto sprinklers (??)_
> 
> ☑︎ _Set up radio beacon_
> 
> ☐ _Build pantry_
> 
> ☐ _Apologise to Marcy_

Hancock sniggered to himself at the oddly insightful list. At the sound of Romanov’s approach, he scooted away from the desk, turning in the chair.

“So this is your place then?” he prompted, as she tossed her comparatively deflated pack by Hancock’s. 

“My holiday house,” she confirmed. It was the same turn of phrase she’d used, in the Rexford. “I always aspired to be able to afford one. My mom would be proud of me.” She leant against the wall. “Home is Goodneighbor. This is just…” She gestured broadly. “A workshop. And, I guess, a checkpoint. Sanctuary is just on that hill, so it’s good to have some turrets on the way up. Oh, that reminds me.”

She moved passed Hancock, hunching over the terminal as she added another item to the checklist. He watched over her shoulder.

> ☐ _Upgrade defences for Sanctuary_

“So, maybe not the most exciting thing in the world, but I’m thinking we spend a couple of days in Sanctuary, fixing things up a bit.” She straightened, brushing the hair out of her face. “I’m kind of the village handyman. Which, I guess, makes you my apprentice?” She quirked a brow.

“Heh. What’s my cut like?”

Romanov stared. “Your cut…?” she repeated slowly.

“You know. Of your pay.”

She blinked at him. “Oh no, Mayor. We’re pro bono. So, actually, my mom would be rather disappointed in me. Hope you didn’t think you were gonna get rich from this little venture.”

Not for the first time, it was impossible to determine whether or not she was joking. She delivered it straight, but no service was free. She _had_ called Sanctuary ‘her settlement’. That could mean she owned the place and was collecting tax off of it. Some handyman.

Hancock cleared his throat. “That's tomorrow then. What are we doin’ in the meantime?”

And she grinned.

* * *

He woke up alone in the old staff room. Romanov had done the same thing in the decrepit houses they’d squatted in the two nights prior, rising early and wandering off. He was pretty sure she wasn’t sleeping more than a couple hours a night.

Gingerly, he clothed himself, and searched for her. When he came up empty, he grabbed his pack and noted that hers was gone too. 

He climbed the hill to Sanctuary, passing by a grand statue of a Minuteman, and a beat-up old sign heralding the settlement. He started up an empty street, stepping around felled trees and tires, trying not to trip on the cracked pavement. Blue, yellow, and white rusted walls of quaint houses had collapsed on themselves a long time ago. Grey paint peeled from the pikes of crooked picket fences that emerged from brambles. It was easy to believe no one had come through here since the apocalypse.

“Whoa there.” A man in plain, dirty clothes and black hair stepped out from around a house, dog at his heel. The man was clutching a pistol, while the pooch was armoured up. “Did the radio beacon bring you here?” His hooded, tired eyes went a little rounder as he took in Hancock’s appearance.

“Actually, a woman with a missile launcher did the bringing. Romanov around here?”

He holstered his gun, with an apologetic expression. “Y-yeah, she's inside.” He pointed at a house on the left side of the road but offered nothing more. The dog simply sat in the road, watching.

Hancock thanked him and continued up the drive, passing around sofas, tables, and a crib that had been left out on the street. He managed to dodge out of the way in time for three people —one of them Romanov— barrelling through the door, hefting a chest of drawers. 

“Morning,” Romanov grunted at him, straining under the weight. She looked as tired as ever, but her skin wasn’t the sallow shade of a few weeks earlier. He had, it seemed, gotten through to her. 

She and her helpers got the drawers out to the street before lowering it with strained grunts. Romanov straightened, patting the top of the dresser with the palm of her hand. “Sturges, Preston, this is Mayor Hancock o’ Goodneighbor. Hancock…” She turned to him and gestured vaguely at the other two.

“It’s a pleasure, Mayor Hancock,” Sturges intoned, and Preston nodded a greeting, neither of them caught by surprise. She must’ve briefed them ahead of time.

“So here’s what I’m thinking,” Romanov began turning back to the building. “This place becomes a canteen and pantry. If we had the manpower, I’d opt for a cellar cool room but we should make do with what we have in the meantime.

“We can try to get the old fridge up and running, but I'm holding out for an ice maker and one of those ice cream freezers for communal use. And, with working appliances, Codsworth is a decent chef…” She continued with a list of things to do, rattling off a list on her Pip-Boy. She paused intermittently to ask questions about means of transporting heavy freezers, keeping a building insulated, and the assembly of heavy-duty generators and so on. 

“It’s a tall list,” Sturges pointed out. “But if anyone can do it…”

_“We_ can,” she said, firmly. “I’m gonna work on clearing the garbage out of this place, seeing what is worth salvaging and what we can toss.” She opened and closed a drawer, hardly paying a glance inside. “This is all clothes. The extra fabric could be useful…”

“Mama Murphy’s been saying she needs to patch some holes in her jacket,” Preston said. “I’ll redistribute whatever you don’t need.”

“I can start on the new genny,” Sturges told her.

She looked at Hancock, who had been watching in silent, mild interest. It was all so mundane, and so familiar. Mayoral duties. “I’m with you, boss,” he told her. 

Romanov turned her head, and then pulled open another drawer, grabbed two bras, and shut it again. “I’m keeping these,” she muttered, and Hancock followed her inside. 

The blue, rusted walls appeared to have been patched together, gaps mended with mismatched pieces of iron and wood. Most of the furniture in the room had been dragged outside, with exception to the kitchen, a few broken chairs, and a TV cabinet. Romanov crouched in front of it, opening the doors, and shutting them again.

“Is it too early for a serious conversation?” Romanov asked, twisting on the balls of her feet.

_One of the more ominous openers._ He stocked them both with a mentat each. “I’m all ears.”

She was silent for a while, chewing the mentat. “Do you keep photographs?” She paused. “Do people still take photos?”

It was a puzzling question for a tone so serious. “A couple folks have been known to, yeah. But I ain’t really the sentimental type.”

“So you don’t have any pictures of yourself, from before?”

_Before._ The word made his heart race a little, heat jolting through his body. “If you’re curious, I’ve always been a looker,” he said lightly, trying to determine her angle from her stoic expression. Being quizzed on _before_ wasn’t exactly what most ghouls would consider polite.

Her eyes narrowed, and she retrieved two thick leather books from the cabinet, both wider than they were tall. She dropped them on the ground, resting her fingertips on the stack. Intrigued, Hancock crouched down beside her. On the cover, printed in cursive, were the words _My Family._

“When I was a kid,” Romanov began, stopping to inhale a shaky breath. “I used to pour over my parents’ portraits. We had maybe a dozen picture frames set out on our dining room shelves, and I’d stare at them all the time during dinner, wondering about their lives before I was born.”

He gazed down at her palm, held possessively over the books —the photo albums, he surmised. “That sounds… nice.” Hancock’s parents had died a few years ago, one after the other, a little while after he’d become a ghoul. There was no way he could’ve gone to their funeral, and no way he could’ve gone to their old shack in Diamond City to get his hands on the only photo they’d ever had taken as a family. 

Hancock wasn't even sure what he'd do with it. Set it up on his desk? Keep it crumpled up in his pocket? All thinking about his family did was make him sad and angry, anyway. But he still missed his parents.

“I think I want my baby to have that opportunity,” Romanov enunciated slowly.

It was the first time he heard her mention her kid aloud. The vault and the husband, she mentioned flippantly and in passing, but Hancock wouldn’t even have known that she had a child if not for _Publick Occurrences._ The silence, he’d figured, had been the result of her learning that her son had died. It would’ve explained her spiralling, back in Goodneighbor.

He looked from her face, to her hand on the photo album, and remembered the crib he passed in the street. He now reevaluated the room. It was spacious and comfortable, and the kitchen seemed like it would’ve been way nicer than the one in the Old State House, back in the old world. It even had goddamn picket fences out front, like an idyllic, domestic dream.

He tried to picture Romanov sitting back in front of the television with her husband who remained faceless in Hancock’s imagination, but it was impossible to imagine her out of armour and without a scowl. The apocalypse suited her.

Hancock nodded to the albums. “Those are photos of you, then?”

“Unfortunately. My son _should_ have pictures of his parents and grandparents, but these…” She started to open it, but snapped it shut. “These are pictures of _my_ before. Do you get what I’m saying?”

_She knows she’s better suited to a world post-war, too,_ he realised, and understood her completely. “I liberated myself from a lot of my past when I became a ghoul,” he told her. “But I didn’t lose myself altogether. All the good stuff stayed. So keep the good stuff.”

“Part of me just wants to burn it all away,” she admitted, running a hand through her short hair. “To destroy every memory of there even being a version of myself that came before this.”

He knew the feeling so intimately. It had become less intense in recent years, but the shame and regret bubbled back up every so often. Had he ever come to a conclusion? He couldn’t recall now. 

It was different for Romanov, anyway. Where Hancock had accountability for who he’d been his entire life, through the impressions he’d made upon others, Romanov didn’t have that. What would Hancock have done if he could have started afresh, where no one knew him?

_I would’ve seized the chance,_ he knew. But, whether that was the right decision or not… it certainly seemed cowardly.

“I get it,” was all he could muster. 

She blinked at him. “And you’re doing alright for yourself, right?”

“Right.”

Her lips twitched and she examined the album covers. 

“Hey,” he said. “If it weren’t for her, you wouldn’t have gotten here.”

Romanov's brows knitted together, and she looked at him with a hard intensity. She gave the tiniest of nods. “Fuck yeah,” she murmured and took the albums in her arms. The creases in her forehead ironed out once more. “I’m keeping these. I'm gonna throw them in a box somewhere. But everything else goes.” She paused in the doorway. “Except for my holodisks. I’ve got some good ones, if any of them survived.”

They spent hours sorting through her old house, Hancock trying her hardest not to focus too hard at any surviving picture frames out of courtesy. From the clothes she had that weren’t in tatters, the jewellery and her furniture, he realised she had been rather rich. There was, of course, the house in the probably once-beautiful suburb, and the rock that hung from a chain around her neck. 

He’d always had a mild curiosity for the lives of old world people. It was hard to live in the Old State House without developing an interest in pre-war history. Maybe it wasn’t important, and he wouldn’t pursue any questions he had out of respect for the way that Romanov so decisively did not wish to retread her history, but the impulse remained. 

It shouldn’t have surprised him, but it amused him somewhat, that someone who scavenged as much as she did had once lived such a comfortable life.

But then, there were the shoeboxes filled with papers and knickknacks that she was dragging out from under her wrecked bed and leaving in their growing junk pile. When they started on the laundry, it was entertaining to discover her boxes filled with instruction manuals for various appliances.

She sat down with him to sort them out, noticing his expression.

“My dad was an immigrant,” she told him, as though it were useful context. “I’m thrifty. Never used to throw anything away.” She gazed forlornly down at a coffee machine manual, hesitating for a moment before moving it into her things-to-keep pile.

“Sure, Romanov.” He moved a TV manual to the junk pile.

She moved it back. “And if that doesn’t get your pulse racing, you should see my plastic bag filled with other plastic bags.”

After lunch, he left her to work on pulling apart her fridge, and took a wander around the little cul-de-sac. There were only about ten citizens —one of them being the ghoul they encountered back in the Rexford— and had only holed up in a couple of patchwork houses. A young farm was growing and being tended to in-between houses.

The man in the nice hat and trench coat that Romanov introduced as Preston, noticed Hancock and strode over from the mutfruit crops.

“Mayor Hancock. It’s a pleasure.” Preston stuck out his hand.

Hancock shook it, eyebrows raised.

“Heard a lot about you,” Preston continued. “Didn’t expect you to be such a supporter of the Minutemen.”

He made a noncommittal noise. “Was a shame to hear about Quincy.”

Preston dipped his head in thanks. “The General says the two of you will be helping out some more settlements, which will be good for us.”

_Who?_ It gave Hancock pause. “How many Minutemen are there, now?”

“General Romanov managed to find us a couple of settlers willing to help out, but apart from that, there’s just her and me. For now. I’m confident that the Minutemen will be back on our feet in no time, so long as the folks out there know that we're here to help.” He gave a tight smile. “But until then, I appreciate the two of you fixing up Sanctuary. She’s got a vision for this place and it’s done wonders for morale.”

Yeah, she _definitely_ hadn’t mentioned the ‘General’ thing. Hancock tried his hardest to not break stride. “I’ll watch your General’s back,” he promised. “Anything to get out of her line of fire.”

Preston didn’t laugh, face marred with tiredness. “I need to get back to distributing these things,” he said, and excused himself.

As Hancock made his way back to Romanov’s old house, he passed an old citizen of Goodneighbor he’d known decently well, Sheffield, that looked back at him without recognition. Figured. 

He walked in on Romanov as she was wrapping the cables coming out the back of the refrigerator with electrical tape. “I have no idea what I’m doing,” she admitted, glancing up at him. “But I am ever optimistic. In fact, I’m banking on divine intervention.” She turned her attention back to her handiwork, muttering, “Because it worked so well in preventing the apocalypse.”

“I was wondering, Romanov…” He stood across the room.

“Hm?”

“You secretly the leader of the Brotherhood of Steel, too?”

She stared up at him, frowning. “Uh…”

“New Mayor of Diamond City? Just wonderin’ what other surprises you got up your sleeve.”

She stood slowly, grimacing as she rubbed her neck. “Is this about me being the general of a four-person operation? It’s real prestigious stuff.”

“Just feels like it should’ve come up by now.” 

“You don’t have to know everything about me,” she told him, crossing her arms over her chest. “Now, can you go ‘round the back of the house to the generator and turn on the circuit breaker?”

As annoying as her dismissiveness was, she had a point. It wasn’t as if she knew a whole lot about him, either. He’d have to change that. He went to the humming generator and got it set up, shouting out to Romanov that it was ready to go, returning at the sound of her victorious laughter.

She was solemn by the time he got inside, shoving the refrigerator back against the wall with all her might. He helped her the last little distance.

“I,” she started, panting just a little. “Am Nikola goddamn Tesla reincarnated.”

“If there’s one thing the guy could do, it’s fixin’ a fridge,” Hancock agreed and gazed around the room. “I don't mean to whinge, but you got some fun to go with all that work? This place should have a bar.”

“It’ll only get one if we build it first,” she grumbled. “But there’s some kruškovac round here somewhere that’s a few centuries past its best-before, if you’re feeling daring.” She had pronounced it with a heavy accent that rolled off her tongue. _KROOSH-kov-ahts._

“What’s that?”

“Pear liqueur.”

“And what,” he inquired. “Is pear?”

“One way to find out,” she said and frowned at the fridge. “But first, we need to stock this thing.”

He groaned, and she echoed him with a teasing little smile. 

The other settlers joined them in bringing all the food back into the makeshift canteen, and refurnishing it with tables and chairs. Romanov examined the holes in the wall with a critical eye, complaining about the need to insulate it properly to keep the place cool, but eventually allowed Hancock and Preston, even, to convince her to take the evening off.

The sun was setting a brilliant, vibrant purple as they walked back down the hill, to the truck stop. Romanov handed him the dirty bottle devoid of a label, and disappeared around the back of the building. 

Hancock examined the golden liquid within with warranted scepticism. He was pretty sure he’d chucked up a drink like this back when he was a teenager. He didn't have the willpower for that kind of night, at this age.

“Hey,” he called out, after a pat of his pockets. “You got a cigarette?”

“Couple packs in a drawer somewhere,” came the response. “Help yourself.”

Hancock strode inside, flicking the switch rigged to a series of construction lights around the workshop, and looked around for drawers. The damn place was filled with filing cabinets. 

He tucked the bottle beneath his arm and started searching, rummaging through electrical components, assembly manuals, disarmed mines and—

A drawer he attempted to yank open lurched and stopped. He thumbed a combination padlock affixed to it with interest. Beyond Romanov’s explosives-rigged front gate, her terminal and the rest of the drawers remained unlocked, like she was confident that no trespassers could make it in.

And, he thought he recalled seeing her unpack things from her bag into that cabinet the day before. 

_Is it locked to keep_ me _out?_ he wondered, moving on to the next stack of cabinets and drawers until he found a cigarette pack and pocketed it. He also gathered a bottle of vodka he had picked up on their way out of the city.

Outside, Romanov had retrieved a rusted ladder and set it up against the building, arranging bags of sand around its base. “Come on.” She took the bottle from him and climbed the rungs, and he followed behind her.

As he stepped across the rusted roof of the truck stop, the building creaked and whined below him.

“If this thing collapses beneath us, it serves us right,” Romanov commented, sitting down on the edge of the building with her legs hanging over the side, looking out over Concord.

“Ain’t any reward worth a damn without the risk,” he agreed, joining her. As she took a swig, he gazed out over the city, silhouetted against the vivid dusk. “One hell of a view.” He let out a low whistle.

“Mmm.” She screwed up her face as she unscrewed the cap. “That it—” She heaved. “—is.”

“I don’t see a label,” he commented.

“It's homebrew,” she explained. “I promise it would've tasted better back in the day.”

Hancock grimaced as the smell hit him, turning his stomach. “Romanov. You can’t drink this.”

“Not with that attitude,” she said and reached for it.

His grip on it remained tight. “This shit is turned. It will absolutely kill you. I ain’t kidding.”

She seemed to begrudgingly accept what he was saying and nodded to the other bottle. "What else have you got for me."

He set her pre-war homebrew aside. “Good, old-fashioned vodka. Perfectly digestible.”

“We’ll see about that,” she said, but acquiesced.

They spent the night passing the bottle between them, getting dizzier and stupider with each mouthful. At some point, they laid back, and Romanov stared up at the sky with wide eyes. She explained to him that she’d lived in cities her entire life, and had never seen the Milky Way with her naked eye before. Apparently, light pollution did that.

At his request, she pointed out a few constellations to him, but her voice grew more hoarse and her sentences clipped. He understood her cue and fell silent. Whatever thoughts clouded her mind, she didn't tell him to leave, and so he stayed. Maybe she enjoyed the company as much as she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SYKE, this entire fic was an excuse to teach English first-language speakers how to pronounce Eastern European things. See also: rom-AHN-ov, not the American way.


	9. S'Wonderful

Romanov managed to get the settlers of Sanctuary started on building a gate behind the line of turrets, before she and Hancock set off to visit the laundry list of settlements that could use the helping hand of the Minutemen.

She wasn't entirely sure of what Hancock had expected from their venture —a source of some suspicion she harboured towards him. Though he complained to her about the slimy, mirelurk infested water treatment plant, and the sheer amount of time they spent performing manual labour for settlements, he matched her pace step for step.

And she didn’t slow. Why would she? It wasn’t as if there was a whole lot in the new world worth enjoying, unless there was booze in one hand and chems in the other. The next gunfight could kill her, or the Glowing Sea after that, or the Institute, so there was no point in being overly cautious and procrastinating. Besides, a few mutant crabs, and raiders covered in leather straps did not compare to the pure, horrified terror of watching a nuclear explosion rolling towards her.

Nate would’ve been conflicted about this path, she was sure, but he would’ve been glad she wasn’t spiralling like she had been that reckless, drug-fuelled month. He’d be proud she was a Minuteman.

She was proud of herself, too. _What happens when you take a justice-fixated prosecuting attorney and drop her in the apocalypse, gun in hand, amidst people being fucked over and over and over?_ What else, really, could she be doing that was more pressing?

It was becoming a bit of a game now. How far she could get, how much she could do before she was smitten. It got the adrenaline pumping far more than anything used to, that much was clear to her. It only spurred her on that Hancock seemed to live for that rush as much as she did.

They were hiking to Greentop Nursery, walking through the dampening fire of a missile blast she’d dropped in a pile of ferals, when he stopped her with a serious: “Can we talk?”

“Sure, brother.” She noticed the frown wrinkling his brow. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. It ain’t anything bad.” He leant back against the bonnet of a burnt-out car. “I wanted to talk about… that night. You said puttin’ down Bobbi and Finn was a mild inconvenience for me.”

Her skin grew hot. “I was being an asshole. I didn’t mean it.”

“Now, I don't think that's true.” He didn't seem angry or annoyed. “Been thinking a lot about it. I just want you to know that I'm not out here trying to throw weight just because I have the power to. That sort of dictatorial shit ain’t my style. Gettin’ pissed off the way I did isn’t, either. I ain’t proud of that kind of self-important bull. I see the danger in it.”

“I think most despots around would have shot me in the mouth for speaking the way I spoke to you,” she murmured. 

“Not much of a standard you’re setting for me,” he pointed out. “Guess I got defensive because it’s the kind of crap I think about a lot. Whether I’ve lost touch with my roots, doing harm to the kind of person I’d have schemed with a few years back. Became mayor in the first place because of a guy like that…”

He told her about the mayor that came before, Vic. The sadistic tyrant with an entourage that robbed, beat, and killed drifters —of which, Hancock was one. It was the murder of a fellow drifter that brought him to sympathise with _the_ John Hancock and embody him by dressing in the coat and changing his name. 

And Hancock had actually _done_ something. It wasn’t lip-service, or debates around a dining room table hushed to not wake the baby. Hancock slew a tyrant, and then fucking _delivered_ in helping others have an easier life. Who _—who—_ had Romanov ever known who could say the same?

Over her shoulder, Nate was gaping at him too. Just a little.

“This is a new degree of frown on you,” Hancock observed, tucking one hand in the sash at his waist. “And this one means…?”

It didn’t feel like a frown on her face. In fact, she felt as if she were gawking in open adoration, and quickly remedied it by letting her features go slack. “I’m glad I met you,” she told him, not doing her emotions justice.

He tilted his head slightly at that, as if awaiting some sort of punchline. When she only continued to goggle, he gave one of his disarming, comforting smiles. “What did it, the drugs? Or the screwing?”

“One follows the other, right?” she quipped, perhaps a little gross but unable to pass up a punchline as she crooned, _“You made my life so glamorous, you can’t blame me for feeling amorous…”_

His lips, still fixed in an entertained smile, parted slightly. Suddenly self-aware, Romanov turned to look away from him, to avoid him seeing her flush, as she hunted in her pack.

“I think I picked up a Kay Thompson recording from Sanctuary,” she muttered, and procured the holodisk, slamming it into her Pip-Boy.

As the instrumentation began, Hancock chuckled, almost to himself. “Those are some pipes,” he complimented, and she stopped shy of cackling in his face.

“Let’s keep moving,” she suggested, and they continued down the cracked road.

Romanov was almost more suspicious of him, now. Why the hell would the mayor and saviour of Goodneighbor want to fuck around with her?

_Is it the drugs, or the screwing?_

He loved killing mutants and helping settlements, but the voice that constantly scratched at her skull made her consider that Hancock didn’t exactly need _her_ to do these things.

And she’d sent the Institute a message in killing Kellogg, who had, after all, referred to the ‘TV dinners’ of One-Eleven as some sort of reserve for Shaun. Surely that meant that they’d be concerned about a renegade vault escapee, particularly one hellbent on murdering the lot of them.

Romanov had come to accept it as a given that there were Institute synths in settlements across the Commonwealth —Diamond City and Goodneighbor, without a doubt, but also, perhaps, Sanctuary— but she’d found herself hard-pressed to stay still in any one place. Which meant that keeping tabs on her, should that be the Institute’s goal, would be proving difficult.

The next leap of logic —and she knew it was a leap, though she couldn’t prevent her thoughts from hurdling the chasm— made her conclude that the best spy would be the one travelling with her.

_But Hancock is no one’s pawn,_ she appealed to herself to be rational, battling paranoia and reverence and despair all at once. _He’s anti-authoritarian. Even, a little, when that authority is him. Especially then. What creepy cabal of scientists could fasten him to their payroll? He has too much integrity for that shit. He hates the Institute too much to parlay._

It quieted the thoughts for a while. Even then, Romanov would jump when rounding a corner to his sudden appearance. When she awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of animals moving outside, she was also checking to make sure he hadn't wandered off for a clandestine rendezvous. 

Among her deliberate, constant map-keeping, and morbid fantasising about what she would do in various dangerous scenarios, she carefully considered how to fight off an expert knife-wielder.

Those were the thoughts scoring the far reaches of Romanov’s brain. It made her a little more jumpy, more alert and sleepless, but she managed to function well enough. Maybe. It was easier with Hancock with her. When he stopped to eat, she’d notice her hunger. When he pointed out a good place to squat for the night, she’d feel the burn in her heels, and the ache way back behind her eyes. Before travelling with him, she got by on shots of psycho.

Greentop Nursery sent them after a settlement of super mutants, though their journey was meandering as always. Both were too easily distracted by raider bases or drawn from their path by roving Gen 1 and 2 synths. A direct, A-B path was impossible for the two of them, with exception to, well, the direst of circumstances, probably.

In only under a fortnight, their coordination had become unspoken. Familiar, certainly. Comfortable, nearly. Each night when they’d find a building to hole up in —today it was a tiny standalone house— they’d scope the perimeter for multiple entrances, and enter from different doors when able. Guns drawn, they’d sweep through the building for radroaches or raiders, and when that was done, Romanov would trap the doors and any exposed windows while Hancock went through his pack for food for them to eat.

Romanov rejoined him, checking her Pip-Boy’s inventory. She was getting to be low on grenades, but had the materials to make molotovs to compensate. 

“You got music for us tonight?” Hancock asked, procuring some iguana bits. 

“Hmm…” Romanov seated herself and dropped her pack between her knees, searching through zippered compartments for her holotape collection. She grabbed one at random and squinted in the lowlight for the label. _Join the Railroad._ This was the holotape she’d snagged from the attic of the Old State House on her first night in Goodneighbor. She’d spied a copy on Hancock’s coffee table, too.

“The Railroad are the people who help synths, yeah?” she inquired, dropping the holotape back in her pack and grabbing another. _Five Hundred Miles._ She inserted it into her Pip-Boy, and the slow picking of a guitar crackled through the old recording.

He scooted his chair closer to her and offered her a sloshing can of meat. “Seem to be the only folks botherin’.”

Romanov thought on that for a while, scooping out iguana meat with a bent spoon as her Geiger Counter clicked slowly and softly. “I don’t understand why the Institute would grant autonomy to the synths they created to subjugate. Seems counterintuitive.”

Hancock shrugged. “Could’ve been power-trippin’.”

“Bet they don’t bother with a good old-fashioned ethics committee, either,” she considered. _And what good had they done in the old days, anyway? We still had a nuclear war. Still had vaults and whatever the hell made super mutants._ “So what does the Railroad actually do?”

“Piss off the Institute, I bet,” said Hancock with a longing smile. “They rescue synths and smuggle them outta the Commonwealth for the most part. Real ballsy work, too. They’ve got the Institute after them, and the Brotherhood of Steel and about every settler and raider ‘round the city.”

“Sounds… honourable.”

“I respect what they’re about,” he agreed, leaning back in his chair.

She took another spoonful. “I don’t understand the debate, either. People can have a problem with the concept of synths being made, but once they’ve already been manufactured, they already have brains that function just like ours. They have personalities and feelings and free will. It feels absurd that it is even a point of contention.”

Hancock leant forward a little. “See, people don’t know synths have all that. Not free will, for sure. No one’s _seen_ the Institute, no one knows what they look like. But they might’ve seen a synth, and the Institute send them to do their dirty work.”

Romanov nodded, understanding a little better. _Synths must seem to embody an_ absence _of free-will._ “So it’s an optics issue.”

“Well, sure, but the moment you take to standing on a street corner, declaring the innocence of synths, someone will end you for being an Institute goon,” he replied. “Or, try to end you before swallowing a missile.”

Her lips twisted at the compliment. “Thus the holotapes, I guess.” She feigned turning her attention back to the can of food, but watched him from her periphery as one of her suspicions scratched at her skull. “Hey,” she started, as conversationally as she could muster. “How many synths would you say you’ve come across, of the modern tech variety?”

He considered. “No more than thirteen. Of ones I’ve seen with my own eyes, maybe six.”

Now, the important question. “Were any of them ghouls?”

He frowned, eyes lifting to the ceiling in thought. “I don’t… I can’t say for sure, but I don’t think so. Only ever recall hearing about human ones. Now, I can’t speak for all ghouls, but I think we’re glad to be sitting this one out.”

She nodded, letting herself feel a little relieved as she returned her attention to her dinner. When she was finished, she set the can by her heel and passed Hancock a carton of water. “Have you tried to join them?”

“The Railroad?” he clarified, and shifted in his chair. “Been too busy to track ‘em down. Try to make their comings and goings in Goodneighbor a little easier, though.”

“Fucking with the Institute is always righteous,” she noted, and hushed to hear a part of the song that she liked. Then, “What’s next for us?”

Hancock tilted his head at her. “Deal with the mutants. Check back in with Garvey. Yeah?”

“Well, sure. After that, though?”

He looked away and seemed to consider his next words. “I’m not above checkin’ in with the town. Been holding you hostage to my cookin' for too long.”

“You cook fine,” she objected, looking down at the can in her hands. It was better than what she could do with the meat of irradiated creatures she'd never heard of before. She demonstrated by taking another mouthful. “So we head to Goodneighbor. And then…?”

He raised a brow. 

“That field trip to the Glowing Sea? What do you say, brother?”

Hancock’s lips twisted into a strange, amused smirk, and leant back in his chair. “Sure, Romanov. We’ll talk details later.”

_Oh,_ she realised. _Maybe I assumed this partnership was longer-term than it is._ He probably missed home. She missed her flat, too. As impersonal as it was thus far, she had no other home anymore.

They let the song crackle to a close as they set up their bedrolls, and after Romanov had unarmoured herself and changed, she latched her Pip-Boy back in place on her wrist, and tucked her necklace back into her shirt.

Romanov positioned herself so that she’d have easy access to the door, and fell asleep to the sound of Hancock’s soft and steady breath.

* * *

The house creaked. 

Romanov’s body seized, eyes flinging open as she strained to hear the sound out in the hallway. Just as she was about to dismiss it as nothing, it came once more, and another time, floorboards straining.

She reached for her pistol, eyes falling on Hancock where he slept in his bedroll.

It could be nothing. It was usually nothing. _But what if I let my guard down the one time it is something?_

She compromised, letting Hancock sleep, before creeping out into the house. Slowly, and so quietly that the only noise was her heart pounding in her chest, threatening to give her away.

Romanov heard another footstep, in the hallway she’d crossed through, and gripped her pistol tighter, stepping back the way she came.

She jumped, a choked gasp escaping her as a silhouette broke from the shadows, advancing on her. Too late, her reflex to lift her gun kicked in, a knife already at her abdomen, and a forearm to her collarbone already driving her back against the wall with a thud.

She recognised Hancock the instant before he recognised her, and froze, waiting to see if he would take the opportunity. With a curse rasping beneath his breath, Hancock withdrew his knife. 

Romanov slumped her head back, catching her breath as fire coursed through her veins. “I heard footsteps,” she whispered to the barely perceptible space between them.

He stared at her, and she could feel his breath on her skin. “Your traps didn’t go off.”

He was right. _But…_ “The Institute can get passed them. They—” She broke off as the hallway they stood in creaked, and she squinted into the dark.

“We’re alone,” Hancock told her, voice lifting in volume a unit. He eased away from her, resting his back on the wall across from her.

“Stealth Boys,” she pointed out, half-heartedly. The adrenaline shook her body and she let herself slouch.

He glanced lazily down the hallway, and kept his knife in his hand. She was glad for that —that he wasn’t dismissing her entirely. “This what you do? When you’re walkin’ around at night?”

She grimaced. “I’ve been waking you up.”

“You haven’t.”

_Insomnia or nightmares?_ “This is what I do,” she confirmed. “Patrolling. With my trail of explosives, anyone could be following us, waiting until we’re sleeping to run us through and take our things. Then there’s the Institute.” Romanov sighed, gave one glance back down the hallway, and returned to their room.

Hancock shut the door behind them. “The Institute ain’t gonna bother with us. We pack too much heat.”

She sat down on her bedding, pondering that as she lit up the screen of her Pip-Boy.

“Besides, we got better things to do than give those assholes quarter in our heads. I take sleeping over being scared.”

“I’m not—” She laughed without mirth, capturing Hancock’s full attention. “I’m not scared. Last time I felt fear —real fear— was when I watched an atom bomb detonate. Don’t talk to me about being scared.”

“I meant nothin’ by it.” His voice was apologetic, and his eyes were full of genuine concern.

She blinked up at the ceiling. “I know.” Romanov balled her hands into fists, trying to force her agitation aside. It wasn’t him, it was the lack of sleep and the creaking hallway. “The Institute _might_ bother fucking with us. With me. You ever heard of a motherfucker named Kellogg?”

“The name’s not unfamiliar,” he told her with a shrug.

“He was the Institute’s gun. A goddamn cyborg, if you’ll believe it.” 

Hancock seemed entertained at that, and began to pat down his pockets for a cigarette.

Romanov found one first and passed it to him. “With a bloody sob story, like every person in this wasteland.” She shook her head. “The men-to-women ratio of the Commonwealth must be a travesty, with all the widowers refusing to go the way of their sorry ex-wives, or ex-girlfriends, or ex-fiancees. You oughta do a census in Goodneighbor.” She smirked, eyes lighting up, thinking of a joke Nate would’ve appreciated. “That’d be a real Domesday Book.” 

"You were talking about the cyborg," Hancock reminded her after an impatient exhale of smoke. 

“Right. Far as I am aware, he’s been their field agent for…” Romanov considered. “Well. He jotted me down in the book as a widow about a decade ago, but I get the sense he’d been working there for some time before going vault crawling, so I’d say twenty to thirty years?” 

“Romanov, it’s late. Is there an actual book or is this one of your, uh…” He gestured vaguely as he trailed off. Bless him for putting up with her bullshit longer than anyone else would.

“There’s no book.” She paused as the floorboards creaked. “Sorry. He callously shot my husband and tore my infant son from his lifeless hands about a decade ago.”

Hancock winced. “That’s… We don’t have to talk about this…”

“It’s okay.” She motioned for the cigarette and sucked in smoke. “I killed Kellogg a little while ago. Water under the Honey Fitz, for me. But if I were the Institute, I’d want to kill me back.”

He frowned and searched his pockets again. "Why did they need some guy if they have synths to do things for them?" He drew a mentat from a weathered box and offered her one.

_Why the hell not?_ Romanov accepted. “I’ve been curious about that, too. When was that Diamond City shootout, again?”

“The Broken Mask incident? ’29.”

She had to check the year on her Pip-Boy. _2287… 12/27. Oh._ A pang hit her hard in the chest before she was able to get her emotional defences up, as she tried her hardest not to think about the Christmas that _should_ have been her first, with her new family of three. “It, um, probably took them a spell to figure out what went wrong with that synth. They might’ve hired him in the meantime. That’s a _long_ meantime, though.”

“Yeah.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Well, it sounds like you could’ve taken down their only guy that did the husband killing. Probably means you’re safe.”

“That’s what I _want_ to believe,” she told him, and ran her hands over her face. “You know, I try to convince myself that I’m being irrational, that they…” She blinked up at him. She’d been putting him in harm’s way, hadn’t she? Staving off telling him the thing that mattered, that meant their lives were at constant risk. “The Institute travel via teleportation, by the way. I saw it.”

He processed that for a moment and exhaled a laugh. “Fuck it. I bet they do.”

“I’m sure if they wanted me dead they could just pop right in here and feed me a bullet and pop away at any moment,” she went on. “But maybe they don’t know where I am, or maybe they want to keep me alive… I don’t know. My brain doesn’t stop trying to outdo itself in conjecture and hypotheticals. I still even sometimes wonder if you’re just here to fuck me over. I can’t help it.”

Hancock gave her a small, thoughtful nod. “So what’s a good day look like for you?”

She noticed he didn’t reassure her. “Four hours of uninterrupted sleep. Being in a wide, open space with a clear vantage point and exits. Successfully debating my way back to the semblance of a functioning person when the thoughts come, and somehow not being incredibly exhausted by the time I’m finished. Even then, the amount of time I spend looking over my shoulder, assessing every settler and trader we come across… 

“Walking into a room full of people, we enter into an unspoken contract that no one is going to draw their gun and shoot everyone present. There’s nothing binding about it, it is just pure faith, against everyone’s better judgement. I just don’t have it in me for that kind of trust, in the apocalypse. Do you know how tiring that gets?”

“‘Course I do,” he said, to her surprise. “Goodneighbor’s full of folks who’d shank me if they had the guts.”

“Goodneighbor adores you,” Romanov murmured.

“Well sure, it ain’t personal. Just politics. But there’s a reason I got Fahrenheit watching my back.”

“And you trust her?”

He nodded. “More than I can trust anyone else. She’s kin.”

Romanov tilted the Pip-Boy to get a better look at Hancock’s face. “Wait, really?”

“You fit in so well, I keep forgetting you’re new to the town. Yeah, the spitfire’s my daughter.”

She almost smiled. Hell-raising was in the genes. “How old is she?”

“Uh, maybe twenty.”

Romanov narrowed her eyes. “How old are _you?”_

“Now that’s just impolite,” he said without offence, and snuffed out the cigarette. “Goin’ on thirty-nine real soon.”

She reexamined him. “Huh. You moisturise well.” He snickered at that, and she continued, “But you’re here, with me, without her looking over you.”

"The thing about everything you're goin' through," Hancock began. "…Is that it cooks your brain. At some point, you gotta let go and just trust your gut. Instinct got me this far. Besides, I wouldn't deserve to be Mayor if I couldn't lay into the scum of the Commonwealth without a bodyguard." He leant back.

"So is this…" She motioned around them vaguely. "…Everything you hoped for when you left with me?"

The smile he gave her was special —affecting. “What can I say? I like the way you operate. What about you?”

_How to explain, without embarrassing myself, that I completely lucked out?_ She ended up shrugging. “It’s good to have company. Yours, specifically. I thought we’d be sick of each other by now.”

“Oh?”

"But I'm glad we're not. Even when I'm keeping us awake at…" She glanced at the Pip-Boy and clucked her tongue. "Three-thirty in the morning."

The look he gave her was deeply analysing. Whatever conclusion he made, his expression didn’t reveal it. At last, he said, “Do you trust me enough to have me keep watch for a couple of hours?”

That wasn’t at all what she expected him to say, and there was not a hint of judgement in the way he said it. “Yes, but you don’t have to—”

"Okay, then. You get some rest and we'll switch out at five-thirty." He put on his coat and reached for his hat. "Go on."

“Alright.” As a show of thanks —and an impulse to try and show him that she _did_ trust him, when she wasn’t entertaining the idea of him conspiring to kill her— she tossed him her Pip-Boy. “The classical radio station sometimes plays Saint-Saëns. If you like that kind of thing.”

He frowned at the screen, and twisted the knobs. While Romanov settled back into her bedroll, the soft drawing of bows against strings started, enticing her back into a calm —albeit shallow— sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at this trove, treasures untold/How many dead wives can one Fallout hold?
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	10. Highway Dust

He let Romanov do the talking with the settlers of whatever little community they were visiting at the time. She was, after all, the General of the Minutemen, doing deeds to get more muscle to join their ranks, and let the people know she and hers were out and about, trying to lend a hand.

Hancock also came to find it fascinating to see her at work. Most of the time, she didn’t let a whole lot of her emotions show. Her smiles and smirks were barely perceptible. Whenever expression seeped into her voice, it was shallow, as if she didn’t want to put in the energy to make it sound genuine. 

She kept herself guarded, which made sense now that he knew she was waiting for anyone and anything to pounce on her at a moment's notice. 

Yet, when Romanov talked to the settlers, when she listened to them talk of family lost, homes attacked, and crops destroyed, her lips pressed together and her brows knitted in empathy. She showed him that look once before, and at the time, he hadn’t known what it meant. He didn’t think it was pity, or not entirely. She was sincerely moved.

Hancock had taken her to be a decent enough person, but one too lost and shellshocked to give people out here the help they needed. He was _ecstatic_ to be proven wrong. A lot of the folks he’d run with had turned out to fall short of even his lowest baseline for Not Doing Evil Shit. At least after he’d become mayor, he had the freedom to be a little more discerning about the company he’d keep.

After he and Romanov were finished listening and commiserating with settlers, they got to clearing out spaces for extra shelters and setting up fences and guard posts. Romanov got a little carried away at their return to Greentop Nursery, setting up elaborate defences, donating some of the guns they’d collected for selling, and imploring the settlers to keep an eye out for turrets to salvage. 

“I should put you in charge of beefin’ up the defences at home,” Hancock told her, as they wrestled with a fence that refused to stay upright.

The corner of Romanov’s lips twitched. “But then what would your job be?”

He side-stepped her ribbing with a smile. “Oh, me? I’d get to watch, darling.”

“Sticking with the old skillset, then?”

_Scathing._ He was gearing up for a return volley when they finally got the weights supporting the fence in place, and the salvaged collection of wood, sheets of metal, and chainlink surrounded the little settlement. 

“Now, doesn’t that look friendly?” Romanov said, taking a step back to survey their effort.

Hancock followed her gaze to the overcompensating defences. “This’ll be prime real estate in no time,” he agreed, not keeping the smile from his voice. “So what's next?”

“Thought we’d mosey on over to Bunker Hill. Tell the traders about all the settlements— Oh.” She glanced down at her Pip-Boy, frowning. “You know what? I kind of just want to go home. Have a nap, have some vodka, live the good life, you know?”

“Cool.”It had been far too long since he’d seen a bar. _Nearly three weeks._ That just wasn't healthy. If they started heading back now, in their own way, it meant they'd get to Goodneighbor anywhere between late tonight and a week. It was a good pace —it was _their_ pace— but a decent meal and a drink in the Third Rail, set to one of Magnolia’s tunes, was well deserved.

One of the bleary-eyed settlers made her way over to them as they were gearing up to leave. She looked between both of them. “Really appreciate the work you’ve done ‘round here,” she said, fiddling with a loose strand of her coat.

“It’s no trouble, sister,” Hancock told her.

Romanov agreed, “None at all.”

The settler reached into her pocket and extended a handful of caps in Romanov’s direction. “As thanks.”

Romanov stared down at it long enough that Hancock started to ask if she was okay; before he could, the settler instead offered it to him.

“We’re only here to help,” Romanov interrupted, with a light touch to Hancock’s arm. “Thank you for giving the Minutemen a chance.” She punctuated that with a small, warm smile. Nothing so pronounced as a beaming grin, but it met her eyes. As she pivoted to leave the settler, money still in her hand, Romanov’s smile swept over Hancock and away.

_Someone has a mind for strategy,_ he mused as he followed after her. Not allowing the settlers to pay her for their labour would leave them feeling indebted and thus loyal to the Minutemen—

_No, that can’t be right._ The labour itself, taken as kindness alone, was enough to foster a relationship with Romanov’s people. And she’d been too genuine, too taken aback at the prospect of payment. As if Hancock hadn’t been impressed enough.

It wasn't attributable to 'pre-war values' or whatever terms ghouls liked to throw around. Pretend though they might, ethics in the old world seemed to consist of stockpiling nuclear weapons and then using them. And Romanov had to know by now that if everyone was out to give themselves a leg-up, she was only harming herself by abstaining. He wouldn't think any less of her for taking a few caps here and there from the people she helped. 

Hancock sure as hell thought more of her now, though. It was starting to seem somehow within the realm of possibilities that he ended up running with one of the only scrappers in the Commonwealth with integrity and a truly decent heart. What was just as startling, however, was how much he wanted that to be the case.

"You want to know something?" Romanov asked, lifting her head from her Pip-Boy. For the last few hours, neither had been conversational, each steeped in their thoughts.

“Tell me.”

She reached up to her collarbone, touching her wedding rings through the fabric of her vault suit. “It’s New Years Eve.”

He blinked. “Huh. Bet Fahrenheit is throwing a party in my stead.” He shot her a sideways glance, noticing the crease between her brows. “We could make it back in time. So long as you bring the light show.”

“Count on it.” She adjusted the strap that held her launcher across her back, and dropped her hands. The crease deepened as her face fixed into that intense, angry look she typically wore. He knew she meant to harm by it. The general scent of fallout provided enough to be angry about at any given moment.

Hancock quieted, giving her space. A brain could be a minefield, and what she'd already allowed him to glimpse had been messy paranoia-fuelled identity crises, and he'd lived enough of that on his own.

It was why he hadn’t stopped to clarify what they were actually _doing._ Romanov had forewarned him about the Minutemen community service —and he was pleased that the work fell within his purview— but she’d also made off-hand remarks about the Glowing Sea.

There was the baby, too. After reading Romanov's interview, he understood why she sought out Nick Valentine. She had a son that needed finding, so she hired the best. When he reflected on the day she left Goodneighbor alone, leaving Nick behind to rampage through the city, Hancock had figured she'd had a setback. He couldn't fault her for wanting to get her kid back, but the Institute was brutal. Untraceable.

But it turned out the baby was _alive?_ He couldn’t make sense of what they were doing, nor why she was stalling with killing ferals and pondering the Railroad, if her son was out there. She knew things about the way the Institute functioned —claimed to have killed their best thug, and apparently had been sitting on the knowledge that they could teleport for fuck knows how long. There had to be more that she knew that she wasn’t acting upon.

No judgement. He just wanted to raze the fuckers, that was all. Wanted to fill in the gaps about what he and Romanov were doing together. Did _not_ want to screw with a can of trauma-seasoned worms, though.

They watched vertibirds bank in and out of sight between high rise buildings as they made their way into the city, accompanied by the echoed peppering of gunfire. By the time they got close to Goodneighbor, the fights had died and the streets were mostly clear, but for a couple of raiders.

“They really just swoop in and swoop out, huh?” Romanov asked with a hint of admiration, squinting into the night sky. “Should I save up for a vertibird?”

“The Brotherhood of Steel stockpiles the things. Haven’t seen one that hasn’t belonged to them.” He bit the inside of his cheek. “Gotta wonder what they’d do if mutants run dry. No one would stand a chance.”

“When they finish what they’re here for…” Romanov’s wince was illuminated by the light from her Pip-Boy. “They’ll fly right out, I bet.”

“When they’ve taken all the good weapons off everyone in the Commonwealth, sure.” He patted down his pockets by habit, stopping only when he glimpsed the familiar, flickering neon signs of home. He smiled at the sound of the hum as they drew closer.

The streets were still busy for how late it was, with kids setting off sparkler bombs by the gate. There was some kind of burlesque show people were gathered for on the stage outside of the shops, as was an annual tradition. Romanov stared at the singers and dancers with made-up faces and revealing clothes, with a small, fascinated smile growing on her face. For her benefit, they stopped for a minute or two, until they were noticed by others in the crowd and greeted with drunken enthusiasm.

The Old State House was busy and explosive with sound, music blaring from radios in every room of every floor, and people attempting to squeeze by them and their overstuffed backpacks on the stairs. Almost everyone had a bottle or chem clutched in their hand, and the Neighbourhood Watchmen yelled greetings at him over the cacophony of singing and shouting.

Hancock's office doors were closed, but the sound from within was just as loud. He burst through the doors to a room of his oldest friends smoking and chatting in the hot, lantern-lit room. Someone called out his name, and another called for the "Vault-Dweller" and they were drawn in, packs set aside, drinks pressed into their hands, and pulled into separate conversations.

He saw Romanov again, a hint of an inebriated smile on her lips as she counted down the seconds until the New Year, a tradition the bombs killed. Her eyes found his across the room in those last few seconds, her smile dropping away entirely for an instant. The countdown finished, and she diverted her attention.

The night grew hazy, a series of disjointed and lively events connected by staggering around and laughing. A couch cushion mysteriously set on fire. De Salas falling asleep on the balcony. Fahrenheit very aggressively bullying MacCready and Romanov into a game of pool, down in the Memory Den —the last time he saw Romanov that night. One of his citizens drew him in with talk of ‘touring the town’ and his night ending shortly thereafter.

It took until the late afternoon of the next day when he managed to drag himself into the Third Rail, with the rest of the hungover town, to get himself something to eat. After he ordered his food with an increasingly unsympathetic Charlie, Hancock’s ears pricked to the sound of Romanov’s voice.

She was seated in one of the booths, talking to a small group of people —some from the party last night, and others that still donned the costumes of the burlesque show. As she spoke, she glanced over her shoulders and around the entire lounge until she noticed Hancock watching her. With two fingers, she beckoned him over, and once he had his plateful of ragstag, he seated himself across from her.

“Hey, Mayor,” she greeted, interrupting herself. “Good to see you got your land legs back.”

All he could muster the energy to articulate was a weak “Never lost ‘em, sister,” and he dug into his food, set to the tune of her story of how, exactly, she came to befriend a super mutant.

“Now that’s a good story,” one of the performers swooned. Romanov seemed to struggle with suppressing a smile, clearly enjoying the attention.

“See, you never brought me along to anything so dazzlin’,” Hancock complained.

She shrugged. “You knew what you were getting into. And we had a few decent firefights, didn’t we?”

The same performer piped up, “How long are you in town for?”

Romanov ran a hand back through her wet hair. She must have had a shower —she, and one of the burlesque performers. "I'm ready to head out again," she admitted. "But I plan to stay within arm's reach. Sticking to day trips, if I can help it."

That was news to Hancock. “You’re not thinkin’ of leaving me behind, are you?”

She considered him for a moment, eyebrows lifting a centimetre. “The invitation is always open, Hancock.”

“Hold tight for a couple of days, and I’ll go with you,” he suggested. It would take a while to recover from the night before.

“A couple of days,” she promised him.

* * *

It was strange now, not spending as much time alone with her. After living in each other’s pockets for weeks, being the first voice the other heard in the morning and the last before they slept, their time with each other was confined to when he wasn’t on business. They caught each other’s eye in the Third Rail, over dinner and drinks around other townsfolk. 

As peculiar and _frustrating_ as the distance was, Hancock had amassed a backlog of town grievances. As confident as Fahrenheit was without him, she had the awareness to know when she’d make a call counter to Hancock’s ethics, and left several disputes and deals for his return. Even if she didn’t always agree with the way he operated, she still deferred to him.

His work hours ended up involving a lot of intimidating, warning, and other such politickings, while his mind thought about gunfights out in the city that sent the adrenaline pumping, and the shelters he and Romanov had built.

At the first chance, Hancock committed himself to carve out the time to seek out a private moment with her. It felt a waste to not be taking advantage of the safety and comparative cleanliness of Goodneighbor, after a stretch of time when all their messing around had been spent distracted and alert, holed up in derelict lean-tos and shacks.

He took himself to the building by the entrance to the Third Rail and let himself in the corridor of concrete floors and walls of peeling paint. The apartment building seemed to retain the cold chill of winter within its walls, fog forming with his every breath. Some of the people living up in the Stands of Diamond City had heaters —they’d used the knowledge and resources of ghouls that were once trained mechanics. That was how it was. The city had built itself on the backs of ghouls who could teach them, help them, make their lives easier, before casting them out to their deaths.

There weren’t things like heaters in Goodneighbor. 

Hancock cast his bitter thoughts aside and knocked on Romanov’s door. He lit a cigarette while he waited, listening to the faint buzzing of lightbulbs overhead. When Romanov hadn’t been spending her evenings in The Third Rail with him and his Watchmen, she’d been running errands around town. It wasn’t clear if she was even capable of sitting still, though today he hadn’t glimpsed her while running errands of his own. 

He took a drag and frowned at the door that had the audacity to remain closed and gave it another knock. 

“Romanov? ’S me.” Hancock strained for the sound of movement inside but heard nothing. _Could’ve headed out without me,_ he supposed, the thought causing him to scowl. He’d _told_ her he wanted to go with her if she'd just given him a few days. Was it so impossible to wait? Or was she trying to blow him off? _Fuck’s sake._

He nodded curtly at the Watchmen on the street outside, who greeted him as he passed on his way to Kill or Be Killed. The scavver being served recognised him and stepped aside as he approached without hesitation.

“It’ll only take a second,” Hancock promised him, before turning his attention to Kle0. “Afternoon, darlin’.”

“Well hello, Hancock. Are you going to buy something?”

“Uh, not today—”

“Tease.”

He forced himself to relax a little. “When did our local explosives enthusiast stock up with you?”

Kle0 didn't pause. “Haven't seen her. But I have recommendations a woman can’t resist, for all your gift-giving needs.”

His anger ebbed. Romanov was still around, somewhere. “I’ll take you up on that. Another time.” He backed out of her store, and finished his cigarette on the street.

And it wasn’t _really_ anger, he knew. At least, not directed at her. As good as being back was, and as fond as he was of staying local as much as possible, the thought of missing out on the work they’d do together filled him with a keen sense of disappointment. 

Maybe he'd been swept off his feet by the new and gallant missile collector, with strong moral conviction and a relatable spiralling sense of self. Part of him was waiting for the other shoe to drop, to learn that Romanov was playing some kind of twisted political long game, but the absence of dread in his gut reassured him. And that was all he needed.

Sometimes, he felt like he’d done all he could for Goodneighbor. The place would never and should never exactly be _polished_ , but it was more liveable, safe, and reputable than it had been before Hancock had gotten to it. And it had started to stagnate. The disputes and concerns of the citizenry seemed… circular —easily attended to from the comfort of routine. 

The minutiae of an average day had residents sidle up to him for chems, better beds, and ultimately, political weight to throw around. Hancock didn’t _hate_ it, exactly, as it had been his choice to don the hat and matching title. No amount of opting into his appointment could dampen the tiredness that chiselled dully at his chest. ‘Fatigue of the soul,’ his mother would’ve called it. He knew it well.

He’d poured his heart into the town. He loved it and its people for its roughness, its community, and its authenticity. To tear himself away from it permanently would be unthinkable.

_But,_ it seemed like a real possibility that there was little else he could do for it but steward it and shield it from the gangs that sought to exploit the regular folks. How could that be more urgent than the practical —and, yes, sometimes more thrilling— work Romanov had shown him they could do? He felt no pride in letting himself grow listless and anchored.

“Hancock.”

Fahrenheit approached, and he waved at her with two fingers. She was hefting her minigun, staring at him with open agitation. “You pay me pretty well to guard your body. It’s a bit hard to make sure no one knifes you from behind when you ditch me without a word.” She glanced back over her shoulder, at the street behind them.

“I was hoping to spend some time with the local popsicle.”

Fahrenheit turned back to him. “Oh. Tell her I’m ready to destroy her in a game of pool tonight.” She began to retreat towards the Old State House door.

“Hey, hold up.” He gestured her back over. “Why’s the gun out? What’s on your radar?”

Her eyes searched over his shoulders, surveying. “Where to start?” she asked, voice low. “Come with me.”

He dropped his cigarette butt and trailed along after her, hand grasping his knife in his pocket. She took him to the main street, stopping in front of a new mural in progress. It was of a Mr Handy, rendered in psychedelic colours and wavy patterns.

“It’s some impressive shit, isn’t it?” Fahrenheit remarked, voice _just_ loud enough. 

Hancock’s eyes drifted down the wall, to a small group of triggermen loitering outside the alleyway that led to one of their warehouses, blocking the entrance. One of them caught Hancock’s eye and inclined her head slightly, although said something that made a couple other in their group glance back at him. They knew he and Fahrenheit were watching them. A bit difficult to pretend otherwise, when Fahrenheit was lugging around her fire-spitting beast of a minigun.

“Some more behind us, too,” she murmured. “Watching the street.”

Hancock looked back at the street art, staring but not seeing, as he weighed his options. “Are we about to have a massacre on our hands?”

"They don't have the manpower for anything so big. I bet that they're doing business with someone real important, and don't want any interruptions. Hey." She caught his eye as his attention began to drift back towards the triggermen, this time noticing the two posted outside of The Memory Den, down the street. “I think Irma hired _those._ Rosemary says she saw someone strolling through here in power armour.”

He and Romanov had seen vertibirds in the city three days ago. “Let’s hope they play nice.” Triggermen and Brotherhood, and still no one had seen her. Where hadn’t he checked? The rooftop of her building, perhaps? The VIP room in The Third Rail… He glanced over his shoulder, frowning at the sight of the triggermen.

Fahrenheit snorted, but her jaw was clenched. “Go get some tail. I’ll hang around to see what’s happening. Maybe step in, if I get bored.”

_This is how most kids speak to their parents, right?_ “I’ll catch you later. In time to see you lose that game of pool.”

He was almost certain she wanted to flip him off but was stuck giving him a glare on account of her armful of gatling. He nodded at her, and rounded the doctor’s trailer to check the Rexford for Romanov.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sip that cup of life with your fingers curled.
> 
> Thanks for reading! I'm back from NaNoWriMo (and my post-NaNo break) so I should be writing this fic more and thus less fearful of my narrowing buffer. Therefore, more uploads.


	11. Who is Coming for Me?

"I recognise that bloodstain," Romanov slurred, looking at the splatter on the dusty wooden floorboards. There wasn't anywhere else to look, with how heavy her head was. All she could manage was to stare at the ground of the warehouse with her chin to her chest, blinking blood out of her eyes.

She felt the air rush towards her face before she saw the fist that decked her. Once again, she lost her footing, but the triggermen that had dragged her this far were unable to support her weight. She dropped like a stone, face inches from the dried blood. One cheek smarted from the punch, the other from where she landed, the pain contending for her attention.

A boot stomped down on her shoulder blades, pressing her into the ground.

Someone was stooped down by her ear, breath setting her hair standing on end. “You don’t kill our brothers and sisters and get away with it.”

_This is a fucking pickle._

All her attempts to stay alert and aware, to keep a hand on her holster at all times, did little good when a whole group of triggermen pounced on her on the way back to her apartment after a night out. Hands had snatched her arms, covered her mouth, and thrown her into a warehouse before her brain had even kicked into gear.

“Hey!” Someone called out from across the room. “Fifi says to get her upstairs.”

The weight on her back vanished. “Upstairs? Seriously?” he muttered.

Romanov didn’t recommend it. Her brain felt like it was rebounding in her skull. It was a climb she wouldn’t be able to make.

“Fine. Roll her over,” one of the triggermen ordered. A hand grabbed her by the arm and with some effort and a fuckload of pain, she was tossed onto her tender back. She squinted up at the indistinguishable shapes that towered over her.

“We may have started her off a bit too hard,” one triggerman muttered to the other.

Romanov wheezed for breath, and something small tumbled back into her throat. She croaked breathlessly, spluttering and eventually coughing.

“Yeah, nah,” the other triggerman replied. “See? She’s fine.”

_Asshole._

Eyes watering, she managed the energy to raise her head. One last cough sent spit and a tooth flying passed a triggerman’s ugly mug. She groaned, clutching her sides as she slumped back onto the ground, curling in on herself.

“Come on, get up.” A hand swatted at her face, tempting fate. She was seconds away from mustering the strength to break his wrist. Minutes, maybe. A few lifetimes, probably.

“You can… go to hell,” she choked out. “They love crusts like you there.” Tentatively, she brought her tongue to the bloody gum where her left canine tooth should’ve been. 

“Grab her leg,” the dog snapped. One triggerman took each and they dragged her across the filthy ground towards the staircase.

_Oh, fuck no._ “L—let me up,” she pleaded, panicking. “I’ll climb the goddamn stairs.”

One of them laughed, as they pulled her along. Her shirt sleeve caught on a loose nail, tearing at the fabric and scratching at her skin, but the triggermen were unfettered. 

“I am going to shove missiles so far up your asses, the explosions will turn you inside out,” she rasped, unsure if the threat was even audible. She folded her arms under her head as they started on the ruined staircase, each step a new bruise to her spine.

At last, they dropped her legs, pulled her by the arms, and slumped her into a seat. She stared down at another bloodstain, this one belonging to her, glistening fresh and smeared.

"Look at me." It was either the rasp of a ghoul or a heavy cigarette smoker. Not that the two were mutually exclusive.

Romanov managed to raise her chin a fraction, her burning eyes finding the ghoul sitting across from her. His sleeves were rolled up, but he sat comfortably and straight. 

She tried to catch her breath. “You’ll have to f—forgive me, I haven’t spent much time… in the town. You are?”

The ghoul sneered at her. “Why would a newcomer wipe out a warehouse of triggermen she’s never butted up against? Hired thug? Righteous idiocy?”

Romanov ground her teeth. Both descriptions were… particularly apt. “I was bored,” she said, letting her chin drop.

The triggerman stood to his feet and stopped in front of her. “My people aren’t easy pickings for some vault dweller that doesn’t know shit from shoe polish.” Something glinted on his fist as it arced towards her, and something metal collided with her jaw, dislodging it with a pop. Knuckledusters. 

Her ears buzzed as she caught her breath. The triggerman sat himself back down and smoothed the front of his shirt. He said something to her she couldn't hear over the crashing crescendo of her pulse.

“Wh…?” Romanov broke off, stomach turning.

He tilted his head at her. “Said, you claim to be pre-war? A lawyer?”

She retched, and when she glanced back, he was still staring across at her. “Yes.”

“Defence or prosecution?”

She rolled her head back, panting. “If you know that much, you know the answer.”

He sucked his teeth. “It was a moving interview you gave. Tugged on the heartstrings. While you were putting my friends in prison, I was in Scollay Square. For the last two hundred years, I’ve been right here.”

_I think you’ve earned a few vacation days._

“Lotta those boys and girls were with me for just as long,” the triggerman finished.

Nate crouched beside Romanov, eyes boring into her. “I’m sorry,” she said, trying not to feel him. “It… wasn’t personal.”

“You _were_ hired, then. Who was it? Berry’s people? Malone’s?”

She searched for a lie, tempted to just say yes. Her brain wasn’t processing quickly enough, but it felt like a bad idea. _Come on, instincts._

The triggerman sighed and stood slowly. “It’s in your best interest to answer,” he said, and took something from his pocket. He flipped the knife open, holding it out as he approached.

Her hands may not have been tied, but that was only because he had to know she was in no state to put up any kind of fight. 

“Sinjin,” Romanov hissed. “Sinjin gave me the caps.”

The triggerman paused. “What? Why?”

"Fucked if I know." She held up a hand and he stopped advancing on her. "I killed your people and took his money. I thought I deserved more, so I killed him too."

He stared down at her. “Thought our kind —the old world kind— understood a thing or two about integrity. About honour. Guess that ain’t so.”

Did he believe her? Hard to say. “Yeah, I’m a dickhead.” Inhale, exhale. “But it _wasn’t personal.”_

“That one’s gonna be tricky to disprove, on account of Sinjin’s, ah…”

“Radmaggot-ridden body?” she supplied.

He bared his rotten teeth. “Cute. So what have you got to offer me, in exchange for you not going his way?”

_Not a fucking lot._ “I can blow people up. But you know that.”

“And without boundaries, either. Could be useful to have someone like you on hand. Eager. Unattached. No one to miss you when you end up in a gutter…” He laughed. “Almost no one. Would you say it isn’t personal if I asked you to take care of Mayor Hancock? Probably not.” His amusement died as he directed the knifepoint to her Pip-Boy. “That is a pretty piece of technology.”

She tried a shrug, pretending that she wasn’t about to throw up again. “It’s kind of clunky. Heavy, too.”

“If you feel that way, I bet we could make a deal. Take it off.” He held the knife loosely in his hand, but the hard look in his eyes told Romanov that her circumstances were an instant away from changing.

Romanov lifted a heavy, shaky hand and fumbled with the latch. The cool metal slipped in her fingers, refusing to twist and unlock. She glanced up at the triggerman, whose lip twitched into the beginnings of a snarl. “It’s, um… They made them hard to open.”

“It’s in your best interest to keep trying,” he threatened, shifting his weight.

She flicked at the mechanism again, trying to keep her thoughts straight. If she gave up the Pip-Boy, the triggerman would, what, let her stroll out the front door? It wasn’t completely out of the question. Skinny Malone had, after all, spared the lives of MacCready, Valentine, and herself. But that was because of his so-called history with Valentine. Romanov had nothing but her own foot to choke on.

Her forehead was slick with sweat, the buzzing in her ears barely registering whatever commotion was going on downstairs, nor was her mind understanding the words coming out of the triggerman’s mouth.

A beat after he'd said it, she heard, "You're wasting my time." He caught her wrist just below the Pip-Boy with his free hand and brought the knife to her skin. Her thoughts collided and overlapped with panic as the blade cut through her skin, as she struggled weakly with her other, useless hand. Beyond the first shock, she felt no pain. Just the pumping of her blood.

The triggerman drew away from her suddenly, glancing over his shoulder towards the stairwell, at something she hadn’t heard. “Well, fuck me,” he muttered. She hardly noticed him examining her as she tried to wad up her shirt sleeve over the laceration.

_Clot the blood however you can,_ she urged herself. _And get the fuck out of here!_

Windows… the panes were small, and though the cracked wood appeared weak, she'd die upon hitting the ground. Other exits… None. She was in an attic, sloped roof overhead. No fireplace, not that she could do much with a chimney. There were only the stairs.

She saw the grunt’s head peer over the steps, rocking in place as Romanov’s torturer glared. “Says she’s auditing us.”

“Auditing,” the triggerman repeated, shaking his head. He looked back to Romanov. “You’ll be _fine._ It’s just a few cuts and bruises.”

Romanov laughed. “You sick fuck.”

He crouched in front of her, wiping the flat of his knife on her knee. “A ‘sick fuck’ massacres entire warehouses full of people and still tries at the victim. You better show yourself out.”

She blinked at him, not budging.

“Unless you’ve gotten comfortable.”

He laughed, leaning out of the way as Romanov lurched for the stairs, scrambling and tripping over herself. The triggermen parted for her, muttering amongst themselves. It took Romanov a bout of strength to raise her chin and see what had bothered them. Fahrenheit was at the door, minigun lowered and appraising her with a grim expression.

“You better go see the doctor,” Fahrenheit advised, voice low as she stepped out from the doorway. As Romanov moved passed her, Fahrenheit looked dead ahead, no hint of familiarity. Despite her apparent apathy, Romanov knew that Fahrenheit had just rescued her.

* * *

Romanov could forget any ideas she had of going to the Glowing Sea anytime soon. Even if she didn’t feel as though a deathclaw had given her a pummelling, the doctor’s fee cut into her funds greatly, meaning that she’d have to choose between clean water or ammo. But as she _was_ beaten and broken, her bed was the only place to be right now that made any sense.

The noises from the hallway weren’t enough to keep her awake, regardless of the fear in the back of her mind. Her apartment was safe, after all. The tripwire and tension trigger would do their part in keeping out intruders. It was getting snatched while running errands that wasn’t safe. The exhaustion overcame her the moment she closed her eyes.

Then, a knock broke through a hazy sleep. A polite three raps of a knuckle, not too urgent. Still, it had her heart lurch, the rest of her aching body following. Who, _who,_ had the worst timing in the world? Were the triggermen so keen to take her back to their warehouses, and finish the job?

Thinking —hoping— she’d been asleep for hours, with how heavy her thoughts were, she glanced at the time on her Pip-Boy. A whole twenty minutes had passed.

_For fuck’s sake._

She stared in the direction of the front door, as though she could see it through her bedroom wall. Maybe whoever it was would go away if she just ignored—

Another knock.

She dragged herself out of bed and hobbled to find her pistol. The knocking came again.

“I’m goddamn coming!” she growled, and regretted speaking immediately, for the pain in her jaw. She grabbed her gun and made it to the door. “Who is it?”

“Your mayor. Bearing gifts.”

It hurt to roll her eyes. She disarmed the tension trigger, unlocked the door and swung it open. 

Hancock peered at her over the box in his arms. “Shit, Romanov.”

“Could you _just—”_ He stopped her, squeezing his eyes shut by way of apology. Romanov sighed, swaying back. “Come inside. Mind the traps.”

He took a large step and elbowed the door shut behind him. She didn’t have the energy for small talk. She returned to her bedroom, him following behind her. Gun on her nightstand, she slowly, and painfully lowered herself into her bed, while Hancock set the box down at her feet.

“First thing: Med-Ex.” Hancock held the bag out to her.

She extended her left arm towards him. “Do you mind?”

He noticed her bandage and grimaced. “Let’s hope you come outta this with a good gnarly scar.” He injected her, and she hurled a weak expletive at him. 

“What’s the name… of that triggerman boss?” she asked as he positioned the bag against a pillow.

“Fifi. Real brute. Came into his leadership position about a decade ago.”

“He’s a dick.”

He made a sound of affirmation. “Bad guy to piss off.”

She clucked her tongue. _I’m the one that’s bad to piss off._ “Do you mind coming closer?”

Hancock stared at her for a moment, the edge in her voice probably making him wary. Rightfully, too. After a moment, he took a couple of steps towards her. "Sure. What's up?"

“Closer,” she urged, beckoning weakly. “I need to reach your neck so I can strangle you.”

His expression soured considerably. “Okay, asshole.”

“This job was way more fucking trouble than what you paid me for.” She noticed his posture shift. “I cleared out the warehouses for you,” she reminded him, staving off a return insult. 

He adjusted his hat, not saying anything at first. “Guess I thought that was MacCready.” He gazed down at her. “He probably wouldn’t have gotten caught.”

“Probably not,” Romanov agreed hotly. “Turns out I’m the only idiot in town using missiles.”

“Guess this is a lesson in being more discernin’ about the jobs you take.” He paired _that_ particular remark with a helpless gesture.

_He’s talking shit because he knows I can’t kick him in the kidneys right now. This dickhead…_ Romanov’s head spun suddenly and she closed her eyes, grimacing involuntarily.

“Damn, you okay?”

When she finally opened her eyes, he was crouched next to her, taking her in.

“What…” She took in a breath. “What else have you got in the box?”

He drew away from her and when he returned, he was clutching the neck of a bottle in either hand. “Vodka or bourbon?”

“I feel like my allegiances are being tested,” she muttered. “Bourbon.”

“Ever the patriot. Your country is proud o’ you.” He unscrewed the cap and helped guide it to her until she had a large mouthful. Then, he helped himself. “You can’t expect to do the work you do and not cop a little flack in return,” he pointed out. “That ain’t how it works.”

“Hancock.” Her nostrils flared. “My body is bruised, my jaw is dislocated, I’m missing a tooth, and a mob boss just tried to hack off my arm. You’ll have to forgive me if I’m a little testy when I say: _fuck off.”_

He set the bottle down on her bedside table and took his box. “Shame to see you all twisted up,” he told her as he left the room. “But you’ll be back on your feet in no time. Takes more than this to keep a gal like you down.”

She scoffed, settling back down into her bed. “Arm the tension trigger on your way out.” _Maybe it’ll go off before you make it out the door._

She passed out almost immediately, riding the churning, crashing wave on which the Med-Ex sent her buoyant. It was only a couple hours later when she woke up, reaching for the bourbon before stopping herself. Deciding the better of it, she got to her feet and stumbled out into the living room.

A ghoul in a familiar red coat was reclined on her couch, book in one hand and a bowl of soup on his chest. He glanced up nonchalantly at her arrival. “Hey, sister.”

She didn’t have the fight in her to demand to know why he stayed. “You helped yourself to my food?”

“Yeah.” He turned the page of his book. “Made you some.”

She looked to the bowl sitting on her kitchen counter, pausing. _So he cooked. He’s still acting like a bastard today._ She grabbed a carton of water from her shelf, took the bowl of soup and joined him on the couch, wincing as she tried to lower herself into her seat.

Hancock was by her side in an instant, food and book aside, to help her down gently. “There you go.”

She glared after him as he resumed his seat, returning to his book. Romanov glanced down at the carrots floating in the thin soup and gingerly took a mouthful, mindful of her jaw.

“How is it?” He was looking at her over his book.

_Really fucking good._ “I hope you poisoned it,” she said, instead. “It’s the humane thing to do at this point. What are you reading?”

Unfettered, he showed her the cover. “It’s about psychedelics. An old favourite o’ mine.”

“What about them?”

"Instructions. Experimentations… commentary." He gave a small shrug. "It's more or less a cookbook with prose."

She’d have to take a good look at it later, even if she wasn’t as scientifically-minded as he. It could, after all, be the book he got his ghoulifying drug from.

“Romanov…” He lowered the book slightly. “Whatever the doctor charged you, I got it covered.”

She replied, with an incline of her head, “That seems like the least you can do, considering. I’ll take it, though.”

“I can’t exactly rinse the guy, as Mayor,” he told her. “That was the whole reason for the job.”

It was true but not exactly compassionate. Any energy she had sapped from her and she set the soup aside. “I hate feeling this way,” she admitted, fighting back tears. “I hate feeling like I’m a fucking idiot. Like I’m the stupidest person in any given room by _miles_ because I have no idea how the world works anymore. I feel like I’m being laughed at or humoured all the time. I’m really in the deep end here. Was your job worth it?”

It was a while before he replied. “No. I shouldn’t have brought it to your attention. You might be good in a scrap, but you weren’t prepared to mix with the gangs and the politics. That’s on me.”

_And I shouldn’t have tried to compensate for my naiveté by blowing shit up. That one’s my folly._ Nate would’ve agreed with the sentiment, although perhaps with some pointed name-calling. _Murderer. That’s what you are now._

“What’s that look you’re givin’ me?” Hancock asked.

“I’m trying to figure out if I’m prepared to mix with _you_. What point of comparison do I have? It’s not as if there’s anyone on my side that I trust to tell me that I’m out of my depth.”

That seemed to blindside him. “I’m, uh, real sorry I’ve given you reason to doubt me. I didn’t think…” He stopped himself. _“I’m_ on your side. That’s a goddamn promise.”

Romanov wanted to believe that _so badly._ She bowed her head mulling it over. She could stay guarded until the day she died, wound tight and alone. Or… “I believe you. You’ll be the death of me, but I believe you.”

“Heh. Talk to me when you have a missile launcher at your back. And to be honest, I wouldn’t have it any other way. It's just real rare these days, to find someone who's not just willing to take things the way they're handed to them. Too many good folks not willing to get their hands dirty and too many assholes takin’ advantage of it.”

“I’ve been the bystander,” she argued. “I’m not a saint, Hancock. America was torturing people, and making monsters out of others, and I was wrapped up in the clusterfuck of a legal system. I saw nuclear annihilation on the horizon and all I did was debate with my husband about it behind closed doors and decide it was time to start a family. I did shit-all.” Romanov put her head in her hands. “I’m just trying to do _something_ better than that.”

“Guess it’s the shame that makes people like us, huh, Romanov?” His voice was soft and sweet. “After McDonough’s inauguration speech, I watched families with kids stormin’ their neighbours’ homes, throwing ‘em to the ruins. That’s a day I think about a lot. That, and all the days that came before. If I’d stopped makin’ excuses for the bull people spewed, if I hadn’t been lyin’ to myself…” He broke off.

Romanov raised her head to see him glaring at the ground, fists clenched.

“I guess now I think I should’ve stayed. Tried to help the place before movin’ on. I don’t know. Instead, I couldn’t bring myself to live in that cesspool. I like to think I found my way eventually, but it doesn’t change the fact that I did nothin’ _then.”_

It was startling, how his words seemed lifted verbatim from her thoughts. It felt almost cosmic that they should happen across each other —reformed cowards. It was what she found herself aching for. The chance to be seen and understood so completely by someone else despite how out of time she was.

“It ain’t everyone who can see the wrong in their pasts like we can,” Hancock told her, and took a deep breath before he met her eye. “And I don’t know how many folks I’ve come across who are tryin’ to make good. So yeah, I’m with you. There’s no way in hell I’m gonna pass up the only person who gets it.”

He had to know how _alone_ she was. How desperately she needed him not to let her down, how she ached at the preemption that he could take advantage of that. It was one thing to gamble on her ability to handle a launcher, to find cover at the right moments, and not get herself pincered into pieces by a mudcrab. It was another thing entirely to put her trust in someone out of her control, and a dangerous someone, at that.

“You said you’d go into the Glowing Sea with me, right?” Romanov supposed it was a good a test as any, to determine his commitment.

“I did say that,” he confirmed, voice rueful. He thumbed the pages of his torn paperback for a moment before fixing her with a serious stare. “I ain’t about to commit suicide with you, though.”

“That’s… that’s not what I was…” she stammered helplessly for a moment, body pricking with heat. “I need to go.”

He didn’t seem convinced. “I’m just bein’ straight with you. Wanted you to know where I stand.”

Romanov nodded, touching her tongue to the raw gum where her tooth once sat. She had fantasies about the Glowing Sea. Most were akin to nightmares, while others… even the comparatively pleasant hopes she had for her venture into living hell twisted her stomach with overwhelming dread.

It made it hard to focus, most of the time. Distorted her senses, too, with how dizzying it could get.

Now, she tried to dispel it with that slow nod. Hancock blinked at her now in what seemed to be reassurance, which made it just a _little_ easier.

More noise from the hallway sent her reaching on instinct towards one of the cheap pistols she kept stashed nearby, but the footsteps passed. She tried to redirect her movement towards her carton of water, hoping Hancock wouldn’t notice. “What’s with all the foot traffic in this building?” _And why did I settle for a ground-level apartment?_

Hancock seemed surprised by the question. “What is it, Tuesday? Folks are probably headed up to the lounge.”

Romanov drew the carton away from her lips. “The…?”

“Lounge. On the roof.”

“Ah. My real estate agent neglected to mention its existence.”

He frowned in consideration, and Romanov wondered if people even knew what that was, these days. There wasn't any use for them. "That's me?"

Romanov nodded and said, with some tentativeness, “Be a dear and remind me not to buy property from you on the tail end of a month-long bender.”

Hancock scoffed. “Says the swindler herself. You stroll into town, with the round-eyed and trigger-happy act, preyin’ on the kindness of a sweet and unassumin’ statesman. I gave you a _bargain_ with this place.”

The relief at how quickly they could switch back into their easy banter was almost enough to make her smile. “You were so naive then of the wayward, wanton road I’d take you down.” She paused. “That’s way sexier than the reality.”

“Was just thinking that you and I have a promising future in pulp,” he replied by way of agreement. “And I’d say that the reality tends to be pretty damn hot.”

“Oh yeah?” Romanov tried not to react too strongly, lest she disturb her bruises. She did, however, like where this was going.

He flashed a smirk, the telltale sign of him about to pull the rug out from under her. “It’s the charisma, I think. And the dashin’ hat and coat. Draws in all the ladies and gents, especially the pre-war history buffs.”

They went on like this for minutes, until, eventually, Romanov finished the food Hancock prepared —and _damn,_ he could make a mean post-apocalyptic soup— and left him in the living room while she made for her bed.

She blamed the footsteps going through the building for keeping her awake, although, in truth, her mind was elsewhere. With Nate.

_See what you’ve done to me?_ she thought, but without malice. _Without you around, people think_ I’m _the amateur historian._

In reality, it had always been him that would happily accompany her to the library while she was studying for her degree, always seeking out some dusty, obscure tome on the cultural astronomy of Dutch Americans or fifteenth-century jewellery. He'd reference lyrics from old broadsides otherwise forgotten to history so often that it became a fixture of their shared vocabulary.

She and Nate would sit shoulder to shoulder, buried in their respective books for hours. Though, while Romanov had been able to chase down her degree, her husband’s attention would wander down a narrow road, and would take the first available turn, veering off into the next pursuit. 

At a time, that had been the Revolutionary War. Nate had towed her along to the monuments, to the Old State House to glimpse the old relics and yes, even the attire of one John Hancock, a man of whom Romanov had previously known nothing save for the flourish of his signature. 

That wasn’t to say she was in any way reluctant to join him on the tour the Freedom Trail, or that she disliked the random tidbits he’d share over dinner about some covert American spy. She loved to learn. And she loved it when it came from Nate, even if it was so very _Western._

Romanov was far from a ‘buff’. The only history she ever really sought was _hers,_ from the Soviet side of her family. Her father’s stories of Slavic _bogatyrs,_ the errant knights serving as the main subject of Russian epics, still occupied her thoughts to this day. His retellings of their rebel ancestors —half of whom disappeared to be killed by the police and the other abducted and forced into gulags— came rarer, which somehow made them more important.

While her father’s health was deteriorating, she took to those same libraries with Nate, to hunt down the slivers of her history with the same ease that her husband could find the biographies of ancient architects. 

No such thing existed for her —not without that _Western,_ anti-Soviet sentiment. When Romanov’s dad died after years of hospital visits and pill-taking regimens, the entire history of her ancestors was lost to her, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you write chapters from your original story beats, and other times, Jessica Jones season 3 was just released and you want to write a chapter where someone gets beat up in a chair.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	12. A Demand

He wasn’t likely to get the image of Romanov, lying in her bed with her body freshly beaten, out of his head any time soon. Hancock had accumulated a fuckload of regrets in his lifetime; most were born from his own cowardice or bloodlust —the two ends of his spectrum. If she had died in that warehouse, because of _his_ work, he had a feeling it would’ve meant one regret too many. He didn’t have any excess skin to be shed.

Having cleaned up after his cooking and seeing that Romanov was asleep, he left her. He made no move to be quiet, for he felt that if she were to awake with the thought that someone was creeping around her apartment, he’d end up with a bullet between the shoulder blades. He stepped into the building's hallway, reaching just inside of the doorway to flip the switch on her traps, and shut the door firmly behind him. 

“Evening, Mayor.” A longtime human citizen of Goodneighbor, Frankie, strolled passed him, wearing one of her typical three-piece suits, and clutching a closed pot of food. “You seen all those triggermen?”

“Can’t blame them for enjoying the weather,” he said, and nodded to the pot. “Cook up anythin’ good?”

Frankie drummed her fingers on it. “I find it doesn’t tend to matter much to the folks that eat it. See you around.” She made for the stairs up to the roof, and Hancock found no reason to linger in the building. Romanov didn’t need him to babysit her while she slept.

He slinked back to his office, setting his tattered book into one of his boxes with the rest of his favourites. He’d need something new to sate him, just about exhausting his capacity for rereading the same things. Had any books survived Romanov’s foray into the library? He’d have to ask.

“De Salas thought Romanov might’ve had you under lock and key,” Fahrenheit droned from where she stood, sorting through half-finished bottles at the end of the room. She reached for a dubiously clean class.

“There’s a fantasy,” Hancock replied with a tone of approval. He crossed to one of the windows overlooking the street by the offending triggermen warehouse. Fifi had made his point to Romanov, or so it seemed. He’d let her leave easily enough when Fahrenheit busted into the place. 

She interrupted his reflections. “What happened to the bourbon?”

“We’re out.” He tried an apologetic shrug, but couldn’t quite muster it. The street below had cleared considerably compared to earlier in the afternoon, an effect Fahrenheit with a flamethrower tended to have. Drifters didn’t have the luxury to care, however, and many still gathered by lamplight to share dinner.

Fahrenheit said, “I bought a new bottle yesterday. For sharing.”

“Oh. That’s okay, then. I definitely shared it.”

She muttered a curse at him, but he glanced back at her to see her pouring the rest of the rum directly into a bottle of Nuka-Cola. 

He looked back to the street suddenly, as he processed something he’d seen in his periphery. Two people strolled out from the Rexford, one donning full, heavy power armour. The other was in old military garb, fitted with pieces not dissimilar to the ones Romanov wore over her clothes. She glanced up to the building and made eye-contact with Hancock, before exchanging a word with the other. Both headed for the Old State House.

_Here we go._ He sourced a mentat and settled back against a section of the brick wall. He rested his hand in his sash and watched Fahrenheit take a very large swig of her Nuka-Cola.

“Quick,” he urged her, with a hint of humour. “Act natural.”

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and glared at him through her scarred eyelid. “I’m not the one in dress-up.”

“No use arguing with that,” he conceded. He doubted the _dress-up_ would be the thing the Brotherhood fixated upon most, however. Hancock considered himself a gracious guy to people who didn’t know any better, but if the soldiers ran their mouths in his face, they should expect consequences.

“You feelin’ patient?” he asked Fahrenheit, trying to determine which of them would be most likely to shoot a mouthy soldier.

The look she gave him was withering. “Kindly remind yourself that I’m not a child.”

_Not patient at all, then._ He closed his eyes. _Two Brotherhood grunts die in Goodneighbour and we'll have an entire fleet of miniguns taking us down from above._ “Reminded. How do you think we’d do in a vertibird attack?”

She stared at him, expressionless.

“Cool. Just checking.”

Footsteps neared the room until the two Brotherhood soldiers appeared in the doorway. The one in power armour paused before leading the way inside. She looked to be in her late forties, and gazed around the room with a distinctly sour curve of her mouth, looking at the furniture with distaste before her eyes found Fahrenheit and then Hancock. Both she and her companion had firearms slung over their backs.

She opened her mouth to speak, but Fahrenheit cut in first, her voice the sinister drawl she reserved for situations like these. “New players in town, huh? Watch your step.” Fahrenheit stepped around them, standing post near the room’s exit. She stood casually, spiked Nuka-Cola still in hand, but her expression was deeply menacing in a way only Hancock’s progeny could be.

The Brotherhood soldier’s knitted brows lowered even further at that, remaining in place until Fahrenheit had navigated around her. She kept her eyes on Hancock, nostrils flaring as though encountering a putrid stench. “You’re the Mayor, then. I’m Paladin Krauss, this is Knight Huerta. We’re here on behalf of the Brotherhood of Steel.”

He appraised Krauss, and then Huerta, who seemed at least a little bit amused by the collection of chems on the coffee table. “Hope you’re enjoyin’ the neighbourhood. Something you need?” _Directions to Diamond City?_

“The Brotherhood wants to offer you a deal.”

Hancock exchanged a look with Fahrenheit. _This’ll be good._ “Hit me with it.”

Krauss continued in a sour tone, “We’re willing to offer you ammunition and rations in exchange for requisitioning some of the technology in your town.”

“Ammunition and rations,” he echoed. He wasn’t above a deal with the Brotherhood, as much as he didn’t want them near Goodneighbor. He’d made plenty of business arrangements with people he’d personally enjoy telling to fuck off. Bullets and food were never in so much supply for him to immediately turn them down —the former was particularly on his mind, should the triggermen continue to prove antsy.

“You gonna round up some terminals?” The obvious occurred to him an instant after he’d said it.

“That… _place,_ The Memory Den, has some significant machines,” Krauss said. “We’d be taking the pods.”

Hancock’s lips twitched at that. “Snacks ’n’ slugs in exchange for one of the biggest businesses in town, huh? Priceless.”

Knight Huerta muttered something under her breath before meeting Hancock’s eye. He’d heard the words _filthy_ and _sewer._ Huerta shifted her weight, seeming to realise she’d been caught out. She didn’t completely cower, however, and said, “Consider that we might be doing you a favour, even if you don’t realise it yet.”

Fahrenheit shook her head at Hancock from the couch, but he couldn’t help himself. “Oh yeah? Enlighten me.”

“It’s an abuse of technology. Tech is meant to _benefit_ society, not rot the brains of people fixated on the past—” Krauss said something beneath her breath and Huerta muttered a respectful “Yes, ma’am,” and quieted.

“We can also offer some of our mechanical services. If there is anything you might need to be repaired.” Krauss looked pointedly around the room, clenching her jaw.

It was a shame that his answer would be an unequivocal no to putting an end to one of Goodneighbor’s biggest businesses, for there was plenty of that kind of work to be done around town. Rufus at the Rexford was a capable handyman but had to be far shy of the Brotherhood’s standard. It wasn't even because Krauss was struggling to hold in a torrent of slurs towards him and the town; fortunately, Fahrenheit was a witness to how valiantly he wasn’t baiting the soldier to speak her mind. The Memory Den was simply off-limits.

“How about I let you know if anything comes up?” Hancock suggested, before realising subtlety was probably lost on them. “Goodneighbor’s doin’ just fine rotting its brains at will.”

“You can consider it.” Krauss’ words were clipped now. “And we’ll be back.”

“Well in _that_ case,” Hancock began, sharing another commiserating look with Fahrenheit. “My mind’s made up. Memory Den’s gonna hold onto its machines.”

Knight Huerta stepped in line with Krauss. “You might not have noticed a lot of newcomers to town coming through to the Memory Den and out again,” she told him, speaking deliberately as though dealing with an idiot.

_Well, shit._ “Town’s got an open-door policy,” he reminded them, with a pointed look of assessment.

“Including _synths?”_ Knight Huerta asked, brows raised. “We tried to ask the place’s owner—”

“Irma,” Fahrenheit supplied, and Huerta jumped as though she’d forgotten her by the door.

“—Irma, about the traffic, but she wouldn’t admit—”

Hancock held up a hand. “So you’re behind the new muscle out front. Now, listen, the thing about this town is that if you don’t unclench, someone’s gonna teach you how. It’s the same for synths, The Brotherhood, and every citizen here.”

Paladin Krauss showed her teeth slightly and turned to leave, power armour whirring and crunching mechanically as she did so. Instead of moving for the door, she looked Fahrenheit in the face. “What do you think? Are you an Institute sympathiser, too?”

_“The fuck?”_ Hancock growled but was ignored.

“You heard the Mayor,” Fahrenheit drawled, lifting her chin.

Krauss met her gaze. “I suppose if you’ll take orders from a ghoul, you have no use for standards. Make this easy on me and tell it to do the sensible thing.”

There was a hissed intake of breath. It took Hancock an instant to recognise that while he’d seen Fahrenheit bare her teeth, the sound came from both of them in unison. Fahrenheit set her bottle down on the counter, eyes sliding to where her flamethrower sat on the couch, and then up to Hancock.

“What do you think, Mayor? Sensible?” Fahrenheit was asking for permission.

He was really fucking tempted. _I’ve heard far, far worse,_ he reminded himself. “Cosh?” he called, and the watchman appeared in the doorway, in his suit and fedora, gun in his hands. “The two of you wanna take the soldiers out of my house?” Cosh nodded, and Fahrenheit collected her gun.

Krauss shook her head but allowed herself to be ushered out of the office. “There's rarely value in appealing to a ghoul's logic,” she told Knight Huerta. “Their brains decomposed two-hundred years ago.”

Hancock smiled behind them, watching them leave. _They’re not gonna make it out of Goodneighbor._

He languidly enjoyed a cigarette as he picked through terminal entries Fahrenheit had left for him, hoping for the sound of gunshots. To his immense disappointment, none came.

There were other ways to handle nosy Brotherhood soldiers, he supposed. Ways such as having Whitechapel Charlie float a business proposition to an appropriately outfitted merc. It hadn’t failed him so much before Romanov. Most guns for hire hadn’t witnessed the Great War a week before taking his jobs, to her credit.

Mercenaries he’d hired in the past —both directly and otherwise— sometimes hadn’t lived out the work, as much as the people he’d run with sometimes hadn’t. Sometimes they were people he’d been fond of, too. _Haven’t come to terms with it yet, have you, John?_ Fahrenheit and the other Watchmen would call it a weakness.

_What would_ she _call it, with all her pre-war values?_ Romanov would probably deny there was such a thing, but Hancock wasn’t so sure. He’d never had so much trouble trying to pin down where someone stood. She _cared_ about people. Some of the settlers they encountered likely never saw as much kindness in their lives as the kindness she showed them, building them homes and water supplies and planting crops. 

It was as honest as the way she’d looked at him through bruised eyes, asking him if he was worth the trouble. Had she felt the weight of his promise as he said it? She’d been emotive in her reaction, sure, but had she _understood_ what he’d committed to? Had _Hancock,_ himself?

If anything, he’d relish Fahrenheit’s reaction when he’d mention that he was intending to follow Romanov into the Glowing Sea.

An absurd grin fixed itself on Hancock’s face. _What am I thinking?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure this will be fine.
> 
> Thanks for reading! It means a whole heap!


	13. Potluck

She dreamt of her parents. Romanov’s father held her hand his weathered one, thick scar over the thumb knuckle where he had once sliced himself with a saw blade. His eyes were watery, sunken, and bleary as they had become in those last few years. His hair, always brushed and styled throughout her childhood, was thin and wiry.

He spoke the same as he always had, though —through a sly, half-suppressed smile of shared humour and without quavering. He talked about the weather he’d seen through the window. The terrible hospital food. Missing woodworking.

Romanov’s mother walked with a frame in the dream, something that she hadn’t needed until after Romanov’s father had already passed. The sleeve of her shirt was smeared with earth from a morning spent gardening, and she slowly, softly hummed a familiar show tune. She fidgeted at the sight of her lifelong partner bedridden until she found an excuse to pardon herself from the room. When the door swung open, Romanov’s cousins could be seen talking in the hallway, bickering as they always had been, right until that last falling out that sent them moving to different states.

It wasn’t a _nightmare_ that woke her with a hammering heart. Not the now-familiar vision of cremation that had her flinching at every shadow, and reaching a little too eagerly for chems. It was a mundane scene. A familiar one, taking place within the peeling plaster walls of Kendall Hospital. Still, it shattered her heart into pieces in a feat far greater than any of the atom bomb nightmares could.

When Romanov stopped crying, she shuffled out to the living room. Hancock had left at some point, apparently contented that they’d made peace. He’d cleaned the dishes first, however, saving her a trip to the communal running water taps.

Romanov chastised herself under her breath as she checked every cupboard and every drawer in her flat, tallying her belongings against an inventory she had committed to memory. When she was done, she leant her aching head back against the buttercup painted walls.

She knew the look Nate would give her, trying to offset the way his lips pressed together by stroking his stubble. If he said anything, it would be light, tentative, and peppered with pet names. She’d feel the judgement anyway, under the guise of concern. 

_It was an act of kindness. No ulterior motive._

Knowing that —truly and logically— didn’t rid her of the compulsion to check. 

Her body seized at a sound outside her door. She froze, straining to hear the muffled voices until they moved passed her room. Romanov gave it another beat before checking her traps, —which Hancock had armed on his way out, to her surprise— so that she could peek out of her door safely.

She caught a glimpse of three lithe figures disappearing into the stairwell. After a beat, she realised she recognised the freckled skin and flash of thick brown hair of one of the folks to be the burlesque dancer she’d taken home over New Years. The heavy stairwell door slammed shut behind them, and Romanov paused in her doorway for a moment.

Hancock mentioned the rooftop lounge to her, and she _supposed_ the amount of time she’d spent gallivanting the wasteland could account her lack of awareness. Still, she was disappointed in herself. For all the energy she expended trying to stay on the balls of her feet, she still managed to miss the passage of people outside her apartment door. Given, most of the time she _had_ been confined to her apartment, she was either blazed or convalescing. 

_How much of Goodneighbor am I yet to see?_ Romanov had thought she’d poked her head in every building, and tripped over her own feet in every alleyway. Apparently, the town could still surprise her. 

After all, she’d been lamenting the transformation of the theatre building into the Memory Den, absent of any burlesque performances or cabarets. Seeing the dancers take to the stage in the crisp winter air the other night had been a true delight, sourced both from her general appreciation of showmanship as well as her long-harboured and no-longer secretive attraction to the dancers with their hair in gravity-defying curls, impeccable make-up, and suggestive clothes. And of course, the way they could move kept Romanov rapt.

The eager interest drove her to cross paths with Lottie, the brunette who stood well over six feet tall, over glasses of hard liquor in the Old State House. Now, Romanov grabbed her jacket and pistol holster from the coat stand by her door, and followed after Lottie and two companions into the stairwell as quickly as her aching body could take her.

She called out, halfway up the stairs. “Lottie!”

They stopped on the stairs and turned to face her, Lottie immediately alarmed by her beaten visage. “Romanov! Are you alright?” Her makeup wasn’t as dramatic as the night she’d been performing, although she donned colourful eyeshadow and her cheeks were rouged rosy. People still wore makeup these days, but few seemed to take as much care and effort as Lottie demonstrated. Certainly, the wig Lottie wore was brushed and styled attentively, a far cry from the way Romanov was presenting herself.

She forced herself to smile, settling carefully against the wall. “Just got into a scrap.”

“You wandering types.” Lottie raised a thin brow before shaking her head in disapproval. One of her friends tutted, and Romanov recognised them as all being amongst the singers and dancers on New Years’ Eve. Now, one of them was dressed in a tightly-belted jumpsuit, clutching a closed cooking dish, while the other was dressed in a beret and slacks like a beatnik.

Romanov cleared her throat. “I, ah, heard there was a lounge upstairs.”

Lottie smiled. “Frankie’s. We’re on our way up, you wanna come?”

“It’s kind of a closed get-together,” the friend with the dish said sotto voce. 

“I spent the night at Romanov’s a couple of days ago, it’s fine,” Lottie told them, which was apparently enough to stay their concern. Lottie descended the few steps between her and Romanov, and put an arm around her, supporting Romanov’s weight.

The nice, polite thing to do seemed to be apologising for imposing and excusing herself, but Romanov’s curiosity was piqued. She allowed herself to be brought up the stairs.

A wooden shack structure had been erected on the apartment building roof, with an open wall draped with a thinning cloth that did little to prevent the bone-chilling wind from cutting through. Rather than the lounges Romanov had spent her time in, this was a small, tight area strewn with couches and mismatched chairs, all of which occupied. It was just as dimly lit, however.

The people at this lounge were all… well, not what Romanov had been anticipating. A woman sat by the door, dressed in a spotless, ironed two-piece suit of vivid green. Her hair was short, vanishing beneath her matching hat. As they entered, one of Lottie’s friends pecked her on the cheek, while the other set the dish down on a table in the back of the shack.

Not everyone in the room had styled themselves with as much attentiveness as the woman in green and Lottie, however. Amongst them was a ghoul donning the attire of the Neighbourhood Watch whom Romanov was sure was a friend of Hancock’s, though she did not know his name. Two others were wearing the armour and leathers of raiders, hair hacked into dramatic hairstyles. Others, like the elder gentlemen holding hands, or the five-year-old lurking by the food table, were dressed in the ill-fitting tatters typical of drifters. 

Many of them sat cramped together in the space, shoulders touching and limbs overlapping. They spoke in dramatic volumes, laughing through mouthfuls of cooked food and gesticulating wildly. Voices drifted over the already loud conversation, through the cloth wall, that had Romanov suspect that there was an outside part of the ‘lounge’. It was the cacophony of a family gathering.

Lottie nudged Romanov and pointed out space that had been made on a couch, right next to a Triggerman. Whether or not he was one of Fifi’s, the human looked at her knowingly. Romanov averted her eyes, as Lottie sat on a cushion by her feet.

“Who’s your friend?” The woman in green asked Lottie, voice deep and rich.

One of the raiders jumped in first, abandoning their own conversation. “That’s a _Pip-Boy_. You’re the Vault Dweller that’s been tearing up the city.”

“Romanov,” Lottie supplied. 

“The Mayor’s friend,” the Triggerman to Romanov's right added, eliciting a few good-natured groans and a few more turned heads. The Triggerman nudged her in her bruised rib. “Couple 'a troublemakers.”

“Welcome to the lounge, Romanov,” the woman in green interjected. “I’m Frankie.”

Across the room, someone whooped at the name, at which Frankie smirked and dipped her hat.

“What is this, really?” Romanov asked, trying not to jump at the sudden sounds surrounding her. There was so much happening at once, so many conversations and movements in the dim lamplight. 

“We like to get together once a week. Share food, catch up, that kind of thing,” Frankie explained. “It’s kind of like a… Aamer, what do you call it?” Her head turned towards a ghoul wearing a thick teal coat over a blouse and skirt, leaning against the wall while eating.

“A potluck,” Aamer answered.

“I like _lounge_ better,” Frankie divulged. She took a swig of her drink. “Less suburban.”

What did she know of suburbia? “Heaven forbid,” Romanov agreed, although a strange anxiety formed in her sternum, felt even though partially obscured by the ache in her entire body. She drew a Jet inhaler from her pocket, pausing at the sound of Frankie clicking her tongue.

“Sorry, pal, but we don’t do chems up here,” she said.

Romanov looked around the room, to see a few of the people eyeing her. “Oh. My bad.” She put the inhaler back and tried not to jitter.

One of the raiders handed her a plate of roasted vegetables, which she accepted after a brief moment of confusion. She began to pick at the plate, watching as people called from across the room to one another, raucous laughter never completely dying. At some point, a clunky speaker was procured, constructed of mismatched parts, and Lottie inserted a holotape. The already loud space filled with the sound of soul music, with people beginning to bob their heads as they spoke.

She was starting to understand where she was. From the few couples paired off to the distinctly different but still androgynous clothes Frankie, Aamer, and the raiders dressed, and even the way Lottie had justified her invitation to Romanov.

At the end of high school, Romanov had been in a steady relationship with a girl, Stephanie, before she’d moved to California for college. All of Romanov's friends were straight, and she felt a unique sort of pressure to act presentable in her relationship than she had in any relationship she’d had with Nate. Most of the camp folks she was acquainted with she’d known through Stephanie, and lost contact with them soon after their break up.

She’d seen the clubs and lounges that weren't explicitly advertised as being for camp folks, but had a certain atmosphere to them, much like the potluck she was in, now. People dressed the way they pleased, dyed their hair fantastic colours, and made layered jokes that zipped fair over Romanov’s head. She hadn’t worked up the courage to venture inside, and then she started dating Nate at the end of her first year of college and didn’t know if there would be any rules concerning that kind of thing. Whilst she’d never considered herself a particularly conventional person, even now she felt… like the housewife in the cute, quaint cul-de-sac. 

Stephanie and her couple of friends were overly polite and neat. Even she, those days, seemed to be constantly trying to juxtapose herself from a perceived hedonism that likely didn’t exist. There she was, bringing her preppy girlfriend home to mildly confused parents, while other camp women were denizens of micro-empires in the heart of the city, boldly celebrating themselves. Certainly, Romanov had never spent much time around transgender people like Lottie, nor the others present that seemed to revel in the deliberate skewing of the labels to whom others would attempt to ascribe.

It was strange that even at this age, even in this place, she could still find herself thrown off by being in the presence of an unfamiliar social hierarchy. It was yet another room that she couldn’t understand.

It was a tiresome anxiety. She was so far removed from that person, not even two months since the Great War shattered her. She wasn’t making herself up each morning, doing gymnastics to shed her pregnancy figure, nor keeping her simply tolerated attractions mostly to herself. And somehow, it didn’t make her feel any less fraudulent.

Whatever Romanov sensed in herself, it seemed that a few of the others did, glancing at her with uncertainty every so often. But when they weren’t focusing on her, there was an ease in the air —warm and familiar.

She needed a cigarette. Badly.

As soon as Romanov procured one, Lottie swatted at her in alarm. “No, no,” she pleaded. “I _just_ washed this wig. You’re not getting smoke in it.”

The ghoul from the Neighbourhood Watch jerked a thumb towards the cloth curtain, and Romanov muttered an apology and stepped out into the cold air. Every bruise on her skin seemed to ache as she shuffled towards a tall bar table, near the edge of the roof. She allowed herself to lean on it, and let out a long, haggard sigh.

_The food’s good,_ she thought to herself, reaching for something with which to comfort her. _I need to thank whoever made it. And Hancock, for the soup and… everything else._ Gratitude wouldn’t be enough to make her feel like they were on even ground. She needed to apologise, for being needy, and for blaming him. Romanov wasn’t useless. She’d known, at every step in her journey, that she was provoking people left and right. It hadn’t been enough to make her _want_ to care, though. If someone wanted to kill her, they could do it. Why would that bother her?

_Because of the pain along your spine, Rom,_ she concluded. _And your arm. And your missing tooth._ At least she’d stick out a lot less in town. Just about everyone was missing teeth or bore the signs of once-broken bones that had healed to misalign. A few more scars, maybe a couple of piercings, and she’d blend a little better. Not that it would save her.

She remembered her Med-X fuelled moment of despair from earlier that afternoon with a new self-awareness. Her face grew hot.

How thoroughly embarrassing was it, to plead to some _guy —_ some _hook-up—_ you’d only known for a handful of weeks, for him not to leave her? It wasn’t even the first time that she asked so much of Hancock, and by some chance, he managed to be the most relaxed, patient person she’d ever come across. She’d talked shit to his face, and he paid for a doctor to get her sober. She’d gotten fixated on photo albums, paced through buildings at night, and he didn’t drop her for someone with their head correctly affixed to their shoulders.

_What a fucking mess!_ It was time to take accountability. To stop floundering, and to stop _using_ Hancock as a crutch, no matter how much he’d let her. To learn from her mistakes.

Not all was worth the anguish. This had proved a valuable bit of education, after all. It turned out she kind of wanted to live. 

And with that in mind, it was an absurd waste of energy to be intimidated by a potluck.

The curtain opened and Frankie stepped out, a cigarette of her own in her hand. She noticed Romanov and came strolling over, a friendly smile on her face.

“It can be a lot,” Frankie observed.

“It’s me, sister,” Romanov muttered. “I’ve had a day.”

“I can see that. No better way to finish it off, though.” She gazed back to the curtain thoughtfully. “Is this your kind of scene?”

A loaded question. Romanov suppressed another deep sigh. “Maybe if there were more gavels. It’s… unfamiliar.”

“I’ve been doing this for… six? Six years now, and I’ve learnt that It’s unfamiliar to everyone the first time,” Frankie told her. “The only remedy is to keep coming back.” She gave Romanov a curious look. “I read about you, right?”

With a heavenward glance, she wondered for the umpteenth time why she agreed to that interview. _You thought it didn’t matter,_ she reminded herself. _Your husband had just died. You thought you were about to follow him._ And thus, no concept of consequences for sharing her tragedy with all of Boston. Romanov tried not to sound testy when she replied, “Probably.”

Frankie asked, “You got people to take care o’ you?”

“A whole team of personal trainers and life coaches. A dietician, too,” Romanov replied, leaning a little more on the table. Whatever energy she mustered to get to the rooftop in the first place was ebbing, with no help from Frankie’s pointed queries. Her mind went back to her dream of her family —people she’d all but lost before the bombs even fell. She’d had her husband and friends to help her through that, at least. And Shaun, to whom she was the whole world.

“No.” The suddenness of Frankie’s stern tone made Romanov feel like she was being scolded by a teacher. “We only have time for sincerity up here. So, again, have you got people?”

She blinked. “The Mayor’s been looking out for me. Fahrenheit too, maybe. Maybe not.” It was hard to tell if Fahrenheit wanted her around for anything except games of cutthroat with MacCready.

“I’m glad to hear there’s someone,” Frankie said, with a small nod. “These are my people. Some of them I’ve known since I was a teenager. Others, for a handful of months. And I’d kill for them all.” Her voice was full of proud affection and in a place like Goodneighbor, Romanov knew she’d follow through on those words should the need arise.

They finished their cigarettes and returned inside. The dancer with the beret was standing on the arm of a beat-up old couch, singing along to the holodisk, to whoops and hollers. At the same time, the ghoul Aamer, a raider, and one of the elderly men were engrossed in what appeared to be a spirited argument about the practices of a commune somewhere in the rural Commonwealth. The young child wandered over to this debate, sitting at their feet and listening as they volleyed back and forth.

Frankie strolled past them and returned a matchbox to one of the triggermen, reminding them in a serious tone to keep it civil. She glanced back at Romanov with a wink.

Romanov found space on a vacated stool and listened in, letting her attention be pulled by the different sides of the room as songs and conversations evolved. Feeling a little calmer —or, perhaps, too exhausted to be self-conscious— she allowed herself to enjoy the liveliness just a little. It was a grim world, full of people who’d survived through any number of nightmares. And still, they knew how to have a good time.

She’d mocked Piper when asked for her thoughts on Diamond City. ‘ _Seeing people rebuild gives me hope,’_ with the full offence at being asked such an inane question. What she knew now about Diamond City had only made her opinions of it more severe.

But _Goodneighbor_ was a different beast. She’d arrived here after hearing brief, but scornful comments from people in Diamond City. It was a drug den, smelling of piss. _Watch your pockets and watch your back._ And when she’d arrived after all, her vault suit was splattered with the blood of a man who’d tried to extort her in the Mayor’s line of sight.

Oh, but _this_ was the place in the Commonwealth that cut through all the shit of Diamond City’s pious disciples. A place where people had a lot less but lived a little freer. With each other.

It remained on her mind as Lottie helped her back down the stairs, later in the night. Most people in the town seemed to have found themselves here from all over the Commonwealth. And yet, everyone managed to have people looking out for them. The same couldn’t be said for the Diamond City brothers, fighting in the street over synths until one of them swallowed a bullet.

Romanov thanked Lottie, and let herself back inside of her apartment, arming her traps. When she was finished, she sat on the edge of her bed, wondering where Nate would stand. He’d never had much love for Scollay Square and its reputation. The crowd these days had many of the echoes of that time, cutting their teeth on organised crime with Hancock as a sort of exalted mob boss.

_He’d hate it,_ she concluded. He wouldn’t choose Diamond City as an alternative, but he would never do as Romanov did, and opt to bunker down here. He’d be fond of Hancock —the revolutionary himself, hanging a tyrant from the balcony of the Old State House— were he to get to know him, but probably wouldn’t have stuck around for long enough to hear the story.

Romanov didn’t have Nate. She didn’t have family. But she did have someone that took care of her through her snivelling and promised to watch her back in the Glowing Sea. As soon as she healed, she’d learn if she was really worth that, to him.

* * *

She didn’t heal up indoors —not after her last convalescence. That had been lonely, sending her even further into her already spiralling mind. The morning after her venture upstairs, she shook out a blanket, grabbed her pistol, holotapes, and books, and found a cozy spot on the street around a bin fire with other drifters.

She began on the couple of texts she’d thought to grab from the Boston Library back when, as fragile and damaged as they were. Assembly manuals only taught her so much. These were survival books, for hobbyists or the paranoid —well, not paranoid, but vindicated, with the way the world had crumbled. 

She’d need to get back to Sanctuary before embarking into the Glowing Sea, for she’d stashed a sizeable supply of Rad-X in the truck stop. While there, she could make good on building a root cellar. While she wasn’t much of a chef —a disappointment her mother harboured to her grave— it seemed wise to set up some preservatives, a smokehouse, and some of her homebrew liqueur to ferment. The latter was more for morale than any essential need. There would also be value in figuring out what to do about Sanctuary’s plumbing, but that seemed way out of any skillset she could learn. There had to be someone _somewhere_ in the Commonwealth that had retained and passed down such skillsets.

Her intentions to learn these things were quickly and perhaps unsurprisingly sidetracked, as the survival guide she’d dug into led her down a path about home defences. Quickly, she began to conclude that she’d made too much of a target of herself with the truck stop’s high fences and turrets. Although, she was beginning to feel dubious about the guide at the suggestion she keep a pet Bengal tiger to keep away invaders.

Romanov looked up at the shadow that fell over her, pulse racing in anxiety before she registered MacCready’s face, smirking down at her. “That looks painful,” he observed.

_Insightful._ “Which part?” She drew her books closer to allow him space to sit near the fire.

“All of it.” He picked up one of the books she was reading and flipped through the pages, before setting it back down as if its contents had insulted him personally. “I bet you could use someone watching your back.”

She forced a smile. “I know your going rate, and I have a mortgage to pay.”

“Alright, suit yourself. I’d probably be bored anyway.” He winced skywards. “Not anymore bored than I already am.”

“The Gunners haven’t been by again?”

“I’ll take boredom over running with those idiots, any day.” His voiced changed with his next question, a little less callous. “How did things wrap up with your son?”

The sudden guilt smarted about as intensely as her spine. “I’m… working up the nerve to act on a lead.” She sighed. “To call it a stretch would be kind. But I’m going to fucking do it, because what else is there?”

MacCready rubbed his nose and looked away, holding a long, uncomfortable silence.

“But that’s me,” she said. _What did I just decide about sob stories? Pull yourself together._ “If you wanted a game of pool, I’m down.”

“I was on my way to see Daisy,” he admitted, getting to his feet. “Maybe after. Ask Fahrenheit if she wants to get her ass kicked.”

Romanov looked in the direction he nodded, to where Fahrenheit was scowling as she exchanged words with a member of the Neighbourhood Watch posted in the street. Dropping her blanket and books in a pile, Romanov lifted herself carefully. She paused a couple of paces away, waiting until they finished their conversation.

After a moment, Fahrenheit waved the Watchman away and turned. “What do you want, Romanov?”

“You down for a game later?”

Fahrenheit looked down the street both ways, and wet her lips. “The odds that everything falls apart the moment I turn my back are high, but sure, I could use a break.”

“Great.” Romanov hesitated, rubbing her neck. “Hey, thanks for getting me out of that scrap. I think I’d be missing a hand if you hadn’t come by.”

Fahrenheit considered her. “Word of advice: don’t enter a room unless you’ve one hand on your weapon. Okay?”

Romanov glanced down at the pistol holstered on her hip and unclasped the fastener. “Right.” She glanced up at the sound of hydraulics coupled with heavy footfalls. Down the street, a woman wearing full power armour and another wearing a lightly armoured orange and grey suit were headed right for Fahrenheit.

_Brotherhood,_ she realised, not having seen the soldiers up close before. The power armour was in good nick, better than the disassembled pieces she kept in the Red Rocket truck stop. Their weapons seemed impressive too, but she’d already suspected from having walked through the aftermath of their delicate touch.

_“These cocks,”_ Fahrenheit muttered under her breath, eyes rolling towards the sky. She settled into a sneer by the time they approached, shifting her weight. “Yes?”

The one in the power armour didn’t seem any more eager to speak to Fahrenheit, holding her helmet under one arm. “Is your mayor ready to swallow his pride and reopen negotiations?”

“He gave you his answer, Krauss. Run along, now.”

The soldier by Krauss’ side winced in preemption, a moment before Krauss leant down close to Fahrenheit’s face. “I’m here to do my duty and do it well. Since your town's decaying little reprobate is too stupid to realise we’re doing it a favour, maybe I’ll have to assume it's feral.”

Romanov’s jaw dropped. _The sheer fucking gall…_ Running one’s mouth in Goodneighbor _about Hancock_ meant that bullets were about to start flying. Feeling vulnerable without her armour, her hand nonetheless inched to the pistol on her hip. There was the sound of shifting on the street around them, drifters tensing at the edge of Romanov’s vision.

Remarkably, Fahrenheit didn’t lash out as expected. She only raised her chin, unimpressed but silent.

Krauss continued, enunciating carefully, “And it is my duty to execute feral ghouls. I can’t promise I won’t enjoy it.”

The pistol was in Romanov’s raised hand, finger squeezing the trigger. Fahrenheit grabbed the other soldier, yelling words that Romanov couldn’t hear over the blast. She fired bullet after bullet right into Krauss’ face, stopping only when the clip was empty.

Krauss fell backwards, face a mess of spraying gore as she landed with a heavy thud. Romanov lowered her arm, gasping for breath.

“You fucking _low life!”_ The other soldier screamed as she tried to wrench herself out of Fahrenheit’s grip. Her elbow found purchase on Fahrenheit’s collarbone, shoving herself free. She took a single step towards Krauss, eyes wide and frenzied, before a bullet whizzed past her face.

She turned again, making a closed-fist swing that Fahrenheit easily dodged, and kept moving towards the gate. Her hands jerked at the belt across her chest until her gun was in her hands. As the Neighbourhood Watch closed in around her, she blindly sprayed fire back at them. A bullet pierced her shoulder as she shoved her way out of the city, watchmen running out after her.

Fahrenheit, splattered with blood, gazed at the gate, then down to Krauss’ dead body.

“Oh…" Romanov moaned. “Oh, fuck. What the fuck.” She turned the pistol in her hand, looking at where slide bite had taken the skin off of her.

“De Salas!” Fahrenheit called, and a watchman hurried over —the one that had been at Frankie’s potluck the night before. “Strip the power armour.” Fahrenheit slowly raised her head to look Romanov in the eye. “Come on. You and I better report in.” She beckoned Romanov casually, leading her inside the Old State House.

_Who are you?_ asked a familiar voice in her ear, although she’d never heard it with such vitriol. _What the hell have you done?_ She didn’t respond to it, climbing the stairs in silence. She had no righteous defence for Nate. Arguing with him in life had been just as futile as debating his ghost had proven. He would not be spoon-fed her justifications.

His voice faded as she processed the hurdle of _murder_ and stumbled towards _the Brotherhood of Steel._ After everything that had _just_ happened with Fifi in the warehouses, after having to confront the fact that she was biting off more than she could chew at every turn, she did this. 

She hadn’t learnt a fucking thing. A truly lost cause.

They came to the landing, outside of Hancock’s office, and Fahrenheit strolled into the room.

“The one in the power armour is dead,” Fahrenheit announced. Romanov hesitated behind her, not yet through the doorway. Not yet able to see Hancock’s face. She felt the kickback still, tingling her hand, and hastily holstered her pistol once more. “The other one ran off.”

“Hm.” It wasn’t an angry sound, but thoughtful. Perhaps _approving_. “Who had the pleasure of wasting her?”

Her husband was not so easily avoided. _Nothing to say for yourself? Nothing, ████?_

Romanov squeezed her eyes shut for a second before stepping into the room.

Hancock was standing by one of the sofas, marker and notebook in either hand. He noticed her, and his expression remained unchanged for a moment. Then he glanced at Fahrenheit and back to Romanov, eyes widening and then settling again. “Well, well.” His voice was a growl —no, a _purr._

“I think I fucked this one up, brother,” Romanov murmured, grabbing the wall to steady herself.

“Talk to me.” He beckoned her in, but she shook her head slightly, unable to form the words to explain how stupid and unforgivable she was.

Fahrenheit looked between the two of them, a slight smile on her face. Like father, like daughter. Oddly pleased at a murder in the street. “The soldier was running her mouth,” she began to explain. “Talking the same bullshit she was in here. About you. Turns out Romanov here is a quickdraw. Gave her an entire clip to the forehead, point-blank.”

Hancock dropped his marker and notebook onto the couch and grabbed a pill bottle from his coffee table. He tossed it, and Romanov caught it with a fumble, gazing at the daytripper with trepidation. “What about the other one?” he asked. “Uh… Huerta?”

“Made it out of the gate, at least,” Fahrenheit said. “Some Watchmen went out after her.”

“Join ‘em,” Hancock ordered. She nodded and backed out of the room. Alone now, Hancock waved Romanov over. “You’re gonna topple,” he told her. “Sit.”

He was probably right. She was increasingly unsteady. She managed to shuffle across the room and sunk into the couch. She set the daytripper down, unopened.

Hancock didn’t comment on it, sitting by her side. “Defendin’ my honour, hey, charming?” He didn’t take pains to hide how impressed he was but at least seemed to notice her expression. “Romanov,” he said firmly. “If not you, someone else in town would’ve worked up the guts. You just got there first.”

She found her voice, trying to adhere to the promise she’d made to herself at Frankie’s. She wouldn’t let herself be a mess, not anymore. “Do you have any pamphlets laying around? _So You Just Murdered Someone Because They Pissed You Off —a Guide for the…” Traumatised?_ She trailed off before she could hit the word, though felt a pang of sudden wry mirth. _Murderous_ might have been a better fit, in hindsight. And she’d thought that killing Pickman, a literal serial killer, had been immoral. Was she such an idiot?

_Is that even a question anymore?_ What was next? Who was there with more power she could cross? Could someone point her in the direction of her next murder spree?

Hancock squeezed her on the shoulder. “Pick yourself up,” he told her. “You’re fine.”

She let out a shaky breath and nodded firmly. She had to be fine, or her thoughts would corrode her brain, just as Hancock had warned her only a week ago. There’d be no coming back from that. “Yeah, I am,” she breathed, and again with more attempt at resolve. “I am.” She didn’t believe it one bit, but fixed her jaw in place, looking him in the eye. “What kind of shitstorm should I be preparing for? Should I be laying low somewhere far away from here?” The Brotherhood wouldn’t follow her into the Glowing Sea, she’d wager.

“I ain’t exactly sure, but we're gonna deal with it. Brotherhood flew into the Commonwealth for war, but it ain’t with Goodneighbor.” Hancock's eyes searched her face. “Heal up, Romanov. I'll handle the politics.”

She took in a few shallow breaths and nodded firmly, looking away. He gave her shoulder a last pat before drawing away and leaving his office, calling towards a watchman downstairs for an update.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot begin to articulate the interesting and weird places my research for this fic has taken me. Learnt a lot about the forgotten 1950s camp scene in my city, but also the Bengal tiger thing is genuine advice I actually read while looking into root cellars. Is that where The Walking Dead got its inspiration from? Or is this general apocalypse wisdom of which I am naive?
> 
> Anyway, thanks for the long break between updates. I started full time work and haven't had the energy to write at all. I didn't even write this now, it was just sitting in my buffer unedited. So now the pacing is even weirder because of the wait. Ah well. There's quite a bit happening in this chapter, so if you have any pressing thoughts, I'd love to hear them!


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